


Endeavour: Cadenza

by california_112



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/california_112/pseuds/california_112
Summary: Morse and Thursday are back with the rest of the team to solve a new mystery: the strangling of a young student in an isolated backwater of Oxford. As Christmas approaches, the detectives must bring justice to the families involved, whatever it takes.ABSOLUTELY 0% SPOILERS FOR ANYTHING





	1. Wednesday 14th

* * *

[Mood Music](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=pVc8ZahBwHA&feature=share)

* * *

The sun starts to rise over the rimy rooves and snowy spires of Oxford, the golden dawn reflecting and refracting off glass panes, to fall to the frigid streets as drops of fire. The light falls delicately through the stained glass scenes of Queen's College chapel, the chaplain reflecting on their beauty although shivering slightly, through the plain glass panes of houses and dorms, forming pools of yellow sunshine on the cold, wooden floors and making ordinary colours look saturated, tinged with twenty-four-carat splendour. Finally, the beams drop through the clean, clear air behind St. Catherine's College, filtering through the tall trees, their branches heavy with snow, and casting strange shadows on the rough, powder-dusted ground below. Though the temperatures have only just crawled above freezing, a solitary student is taking advantage of this early morning calm, making his way down the bright path deep in thought, his latest Shakespeare text on his mind. A small brook bubbles sluggishly in the background, ice crystals swirling in the slower parts, and he stares at it absently, wood-carved scenes of Othello and Desdemona floating before him, the final act in its final throes. So vivid are these images, that when a live, or rather, dead, example comes along, he hardly notices it. He almost walks past, not eager to stand around in the cold, but then her eyes are too detailed, and her dress is too colourful under a thin film of frost, and he feels as though he has to look back. He starts slowly backing away almost instantly, the vision of the murdered girl floating in front of him. The cry rolls off his tongue without him realising, at first quietly but ending in a scream, slicing through the snowy air.

* * *

          "Murder!"

PC Strange raised his eyebrows, looking up from his notebook at the strained face of Edgar Thorpe.

          "What made you think that?" Strange pressed.

The student looked away and fiddled with his thick winter scarf nervously, clearly unsure of what to say. Strange suppressed a sigh, and waited. Most of the interview had gone like this, Thorpe deliberating for a while before giving a short answer. He would have liked to get this over with so that he could go back to the station, and not stand around for much longer in this cold tree tunnel, having a light dusting of snow fall on him every time a bird fluttered into the white sky.

          "It was just…I walk here every day, even in the winter." Edgar paused. "People don't lie in the brook with their eyes open, officer."

          "People don't lie in the brook if they can avoid it, I imagine, this time of year." Strange muttered, shivering as he scribbled. "Remind me," he continued in a normal tone, "what time did you find the body?"

          "Around seven o'clock." Thorpe replied, quickly for once. "Maybe slightly after."

          "And when you saw her, you…"

          "Ran straight back to the college and phoned the police." Thorpe said, his scarf flashing between his fingers. "Then you all arrived, and…well…"

Strange nodded knowingly, putting away his notebook inside his thick winter coat. "That'll be all for now, Mr Thorpe, but we'll need a more formal statement later." The student nodded awkwardly and walked quickly away on the well-trodden path through the snow, nervous hands still playing with his scarf. Sighing, Strange turned to the scene behind him. In the shallow morning shadows under the thin branches, the brook babbled away on its ever-running course, and the body of the girl, having been pulled out of it, lay on a slightly damp sheet on the bank. A black briefcase was open next to it, accompanied by its owner. Doctor DeBryn was leaning over the throat of the unfortunate, narrating his findings to a rather hesitant constable hovering behind him.

          "She was strangled, Morse." he said, getting up. "That appears to be all, but I'll give you a final verdict once I've given her the once-over."

DC Morse nodded stiffly, averting his eyes from the corpse. "About two?"

          "As usual. Strange." DeBryn gave a nod to the constable, before picking up his bag and starting back towards the college and his warm car, the orderlies closing in.

Suddenly he turned, looking to Morse. "I haven't seen Inspector Thursday today?"

          "No, he's busy." Morse replied, his shiver as the litter passed between him and the Doctor nothing to do with the chill air. "He called in, something urgent to sort out at home."

DeBryn nodded, then continued his journey, soon disappearing into the snowy gloom of the thin pathway. Strange turned to Morse.

          "Give you a lift, matey? What with the snow, and all?"

          "No, thanks," Morse replied, with a twitch of a smile. "I've got a stop to make."

          "Anything special?" Strange asked, as they hurried together down the path to the college, chafing their hands against the cold. "Or should I ask, anyone?"

          "Nothing as interesting as that, I'm just going to take a quick look around a flat." Morse replied. "My old place is hiking the rent up."

Strange looked surprised. "If you need a bit of help, I can lend-"

          "Really, it's easier to find a new place." Morse said with a depreciating gesture, internally wishing he'd never made his last point. "I'll be back in about an hour."

With that the two men parted ways, each to their own task.

* * *

          "This is the one."

Morse watched awkwardly as Mrs Bindle, his soon-to-be landlady, took out a bunch of keys from the pocket of her dull floral house coat, and flicked through to find the right one. The room was at the end of an attic corridor, and the two of them had carved a channel through the dust on the floor getting here, so little was this used. Finally, the key grated in the underused lock, and the door was pushed open with a loud creak. No sneaking in late then.

          "It's this room, a bedroom and a bathroom."

He took a step inside, and looked around the sparsely furnished space. There were rough forms of two chairs and a table under holey white sheets, and everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. Peering through to the bedroom, a single bedframe was pushed into a corner, with a bedside table next to it, and a chest of drawers sitting forlornly in a corner. The bathroom could use a clean, but looked serviceable. He could see a gas meter, and hoped that it worked, for the room was slightly warmer than a fridge. There were two windows in the flat, both slightly clouded by snow and radiating cold, which also seemed to be the main sources of light. This was mostly because-

          "The light needs a new bulb, but that'll be in your first payment." Mrs Bindle said, tight lipped and frowning slightly.

Mustering a smile, Morse turned to her. "I'll take it, thank you Mrs Bindle. Just to check, how much is it?"

          "Rent's-"

* * *

          "How much?"

          "That's what I was thinking." Morse sat down at his desk, staring blankly at his in-tray.

          "And that's cheaper than your previous place?" Strange was standing nearby, stupefied. "How are you going to pay? I thought you said you were short on cash?"

Morse rolled a form into his typewriter. "I've got overtime to clock in from a while back, that should cover it."

          "You've got too much overtime." Strange sat down at his desk. "You should really-"

          "Anything in, Morse?"

The DC looked up, startled, as DI Thursday entered the incident room, looking a little worse for wear.

          "Something came in early this morning, a strangling behind St. Catherine's college." Morse said, slightly hesitantly. "I'm going over to get Doctor DeBryn's report at two."

          "The Jay-Price one- I heard. Could you fill me in?" Thursday said, nodding to his office.

          "Alright."

A little confused, Morse stood up and entered. Thursday sat down behind his desk, and looked forlornly at the massive pile of papers on his right. Reaching past them, he picked up his pipe and looked around for his tobacco.

          "Are you alright, sir?" Morse asked tentatively.

          "It's just Christmas." Thursday replied, finding the pouch. "Eleven days to go, and so much to deal with, what with the family coming. Win's rushing herself off her feet trying to organise everything, and I can't help because I've got to come in to work."

          "You don't have to, I can handle this." Morse said, regretting mentioning the strangling. "If you need to help with that, then-"

          "I need to be here, Morse." Thursday flicked his lighter. "The Jay-Price's need to know what happened to their daughter, they can't have a Christmas with that hanging over them."

Morse nodded in agreement of the fact, then silence fell in the office. Thursday puffed on his pipe for a moment, before clearing his throat.

          "So, this strangling then. What's going on with that?"

          "What we know so far is that a student from Jesus College out on a walk this morning discovered the body of Stephanie Jay-Price, a Law student from Magdalen College by the folders in her bag. The college has been notified, and are looking up her next of kin. All Doctor DeBryn could say from a first look was that she had been strangled, and I thought from my glance that she'd been there some time, because frost had settled on her." Just thinking about the glance, Morse suppressed a shiver.

          "Not much to go on, but it's something." Thursday chewed his pipe thoughtfully. "Hopefully the Doctor will give us more information."

          "Yes, we'll find out at two." Morse got up. "I'll finish the paperwork on those burglaries before I go."

Back at his own desk, Morse shuffled papers, thinking not about the burglaries, but about his own Christmas. Judging by the state of his paperwork pile, he would be lucky to have moved flats by then, let alone be able to do anything for it. Maybe just some Puccini and a bottle this year, cook something nice on Christmas day. Possibly even go out, if his pay could stretch to it. What fun he was going to have.

* * *

At half past one, Thursday was pulled from beneath his mountain of paperwork by Morse, and they took out the Jag. Thursday could see the lad shivering even as they got close to the main station door, and was hardly surprised to hear his teeth chattering as they climbed into the car. As soon as they were rolling, he turned the heating up as high as it could go, and sat back in the red leather seat, watching as his bagman gradually stopped chafing his hands at every red light. However, even though Morse's coat might be thin, his wasn't, and he soon started to feel rather too hot. He only realised he'd been sweating when Morse reached out ten minutes into the drive and turned the heating down.

          "Don’t do that Morse, you'll freeze."

          "And you'll cook." He turned it off. "Honestly, I'm fine, sir."

          "You are no-" But Thursday gave up half way through his sentence, realising that Morse wasn't likely to be listening.

The rest of the drive was conducted in silence, Thursday occasionally reaching forwards to turn up the heating a degree when he saw Morse start to shiver. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up at the hospital, and exited the car into the freezing air. Making their way through the clean white hallways, they descended to the basement morgue. Morse recoiled instinctively when he first smelt the odour of death curling from beneath the thick metal doors, but pushed himself forwards, the necessity of solving the case the only thing keeping him off the floor. Doctor DeBryn was ready for them when they entered.

          "Gentlemen, right on time. The first act is about to begin." The gloved up Doctor, though not bloody, was still not a particularly happy image for Morse. "I've done all my rummaging, and it seems that the only cause of death was strangulation."

          "What with?" Thursday asked softly, his eyes on the young face of Stephanie Jay-Price.

          "A handkerchief. The weapon, as we may call it, is in the box." The Doctor indicated a plain cardboard cube waiting by the door, a favour from this rather dour party. "It seems to have been a surprisingly effective weapon, as she passed out within minutes. We can see that here-" he indicated a dark line on the girl's pale neck, which was surrounded by a small amount of scratch marks "- and here-" He picked up the girl's hand and showed the Inspector her fingernails, which had a little blood underneath them. "-and, of course, on the hankie."

Thursday nodded, and Morse swallowed whilst still staring into the infinite distance. "That all, Doctor?"

          "That's all worth mentioning; there are of course her stomach contents, but-" DeBryn caught sight of Morse's pale face. "-nothing of consequence. I think I can leave them for my report; it's in the box too."

With that, DeBryn pulled the crisp white sheet back over Stephanie Jay-Price's head. "Her parents are travelling up from Bristol for the formal identification." he said, taking off his gloves with the characteristic sound. Thursday nodded his head, and started to walk to the door, Morse, having beat a hasty exit, already waiting in the corridor outside. His hand reaching out for the door handle, the Doctor called him.

          "Inspector, there is one thing, I didn't care to mention it in front of Morse." DeBryn lowered his voice. "She had been interfered with, some hours before she was killed."

Thursday sighed, and nodded. "A sex case then."

          "It would look that way." DeBryn pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "Hopefully not, though. It might just be coincidence."

          "Thank you for your findings, Doctor." Thursday tipped his hat, and left the cold morgue.

Collecting Morse from the corridor, they returned to the station and opened the box of Stephanie's effects. It contained the handkerchief, messily embroidered with the letters 'JP', the dress and shawl that she had been wearing, shoes, bag, and a few loose odds and ends.

          "Nothing out of the ordinary at all, then." Morse said, looking over the desk where the items were spread.

          "Not much, no." Thursday thought for a minute, then went through with it. "Doctor DeBryn told me something just before I came out. She'd been interfered with in the hours before her death."

          "So, what, this is a sex case then?"

          "That's what I said; it seems to be, until we know any different." Thursday started packing the items back into the box. "I'll get this lot off to the photographers, then they can be released to the family."

So saying, he opened the box and started putting the items back in.

          "Why did they do it, though?" Morse stared at his empty typewriter. "There isn't a motive here. She isn't well known, not to us at least, so why would someone want to strangle her?"

          "Let's hope we find out." Thursday said, pushing the lid onto the box.

Morse looked up, determination in his eyes. "We will find out."


	2. Thursday 15th

[Mood Music](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=hnv5pbtVnLg&feature=share)

* * *

On the other side of the night, on the other side of Oxford, a letter flopped onto a doormat, the letterbox clicking closed behind it. Steps on a spiralling metal staircase, and the sender was gone.

          "Post! Someone get that, would you?"

One of the many journalists who filled the Oxford Mail's typist room got up from his typewriter grudgingly and picked up the letter, seeing that nobody else was likely to do it.

          "It's addressed to Miss Frazil."

          "Well, give it to her then, there's a good lad." The leering smiles left no room for kindness to the new boy.

Crossing the room, he knocked on the editor's glass partition, and entered when he was called. The editor herself, Miss Dorothea Frazil, was seated behind her desk, it's surface rife with images and draft articles, waiting to be slotted into the next edition to go to print. Looking up at the intruder, she pushed strands of shoulder-length brown hair off her face, her fashionably wide-sleeved orange blouse causing a small gust of rubber and pencil shavings to migrate to the outer edges of the desk. Her face looked a little tired, but her eyes were alert.

          "Letter for you."

          "Thanks, Harry." She dismissed him with a smile, kind, unlike those in the outer room.

Left alone, Miss Frazil opened the letter intrigued, wondering what story this held. As the pages of figures on headed paper slid out, her eyes widened. The note also within almost made her eyebrows disappear completely. The shout was off her lips before she realised it was on them.

          "Stop press!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one today, but it'll be long again tomorrow i promise


	3. Friday 16th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcVgopVoefg&index=5&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&t=0s)

* * *

Roused by his puny alarm clock, DC Morse awoke slowly, screwing his eyes up against the sunlight that fell unobstructed through his bare window. The curtains had been packed away in one of the many boxes littering the floor, ready for moving as soon as his rent was up on this place, the coming Tuesday. Shivering, he hunted around for a vest and trousers as his breath lingered visibly, getting dressed as quickly as possible in the frosty winter air that radiated into his flat from every hard surface. Just as he was picking out a tie- black or dark blue?- he heard the thump of his daily Oxford Mail falling onto his doorstep, delivered by an adventurous or well-paid delivery boy. Opening his door only as far as necessary, he reached out a thin arm through the gap, his whole body shivering as the back of his hand touched the frost-covered wall by accident. Quickly, he snagged the paper and drew his hand back in.

          "What?"

Morse involuntarily uttered the word, as he stared at the newspaper which was clutched in his hand, shivering in just his vest and trousers. After a few long seconds, he moved to a chair and sat down, still staring at the headline. Then, dressing hurriedly and with little caution, old crossword pages flying everywhere as he dug around for a second sock, he pulled on his car-coat and, newspaper in hand, set off at a jog for the station. Arriving in the CID office, he danced past colleagues and knocked on Inspector Thursday's office door, slumping against the door frame to catch his breath, closing his eyes whilst taking deep breaths. Thursday, hearing the knock and the hurried breathing, was quick to open the door, taking Morse off guard. His rest gone, he fell through the door and only just regained balance as Thursday caught him.

          "What is it, Morse?" Thursday asked worriedly, "Are you hurt? Should I-"

          "No…just…paper…" Morse took the newspaper from his pocket and presented it to Thursday, loosening his tie slightly as he did so. "I got it…this morning. Thought…you should know."

Thursday studied the headline- ‘Society Figures Revealed In Financial Scandal'- and saw what Morse had meant. Scanning the article, he saw a couple of names he realised, people high up in the policing chain. He grabbed his hat, and took a glance at Morse.

          "I'm going to Miss Frazil, at the Mail, ask her where she got these."

          "I'll be ready in a minute, sir," Morse said, readjusting his tie, "just let me-"

          "You stay here." Thursday said, not unkindly. "I'll find someone else."

          "Ask if there was a note," Morse said, perching on Thursday’s desk to catch his breath, "it might be useful."

          "I am a policeman, Morse…" came the Inspectors reply, just as he disappeared from the room.

* * *

          "There was."

Miss Frazil handed the paper with neat printed script on it to Inspector Thursday, who handed it to his junior colleague, and took a drag from her cigarette.

          "These few pages I enclose may be of some interest to your business, as they detail a scandal which is previously unheard of in this Oxfordian society. More details to follow. From, Anonymous." DS Strange finished reading and looked up. "Any idea who it's from?"

          "An employee of the Wessex Bank, I should think," Miss Frazil said, pointing to the heading on the paper with her cigarette, "who else would be able to get this paper?"

DI Thursday re-entered the conversation. "And there was no demand for money, prior to this?"

          "No, they just came out of the blue."

          "Who bought them to you?" Thursday asked.

          "One of the new boys, Harry, his name is."

          "We'll need to talk to him, do you know where he is?" Strange said, looking round as though he would be standing in the corner.

As it happened, he was; a tall, thin, twenty-something, with an unruly crop of blonde hair. Wearing a slightly too small casual suit, he looked as if he had been in the business a while, when he had actually only joined the office a few days since. He was smoking, a long, thin cigarette, and it didn't suit him.

          "You're Harry?" Strange asked, sounding surprised. "Harry what?"

          "Davidson." His hand remained in his pocket.

Both of the policemen were more than a little surprised at this apparent disregard for etiquette, but ploughed on. "You bought the letter to Miss Frazil?" Strange prompted.

          "Yeah, Johns told me to." He tapped ash off his cigarette, straight onto the floor. "Picked it up from the doormat, and bought it straight here."

          "You didn't see the sender?"

          "You didn't see the door?" There was a liberal spread of sarcasm in his tone. "No windows. I've never seen anyone through solid wood before."

Thursday exchanged a glance with Miss Frazil, who's return looked seemed to say 'He's like this all the time'. Thinking it unlikely he was going to make any headway with this impertinent witness, Thursday aimed his next question at Miss Frazil.

          "That's all there is to it?"

          "So far, Inspector."

          "We'll be going then. Notify us at the station if you do get any more information of this type." Thursday said, putting his hat on again. "We'll have to take these papers, but I'm guessing you've already published the figures."

          "A few of them, yes."

Taken aback a little, Thursday flicked through the papers. "How much is there here?"

          "As the note says, a few pages. Enough to incriminate half of Oxford high society as they are," Miss Frazil replied, with a small smile, "and bring in the bank rolls for this paper."

          "Well, thank you for your time, Miss Frazil." Thursday tipped his hat to her, and then left the office.

Strange followed, shooting a last glance at Harry. Once outside, he turned to his superior.

          "What about it then?"

          "I'm not quite sure what there is to investigate, not on what's been sent to far." Thursday replied. "It's all well and good that we know some information is here, but whilst they haven't had any impacts there's really nothing that we can do. None of the people mentioned to be in the Force are affected at all, so far."

          "Surely though, if nobody has asked for money from the Mail, it's got to be some kind of revenge plot." Strange pointed out.

          "But these figures touch so many people, which one is it?" Thursday said, getting into the car. "We can't investigate them all, we just don't have the manpower."

The car pulled out back towards the station, and Miss Frazil watched them go, wondering how soon she was going to get her story back.

* * *

As Thursday and Strange were driving back to the station, the radio buzzed, and a familiar voice came over the radio.

          "Inspector Thursday, Strange?"

          "Morse?" Thursday replied as Strange was driving. "What's going on?"

          "The Jay-Prices have arrived from Bristol, and they're waiting in your office, sir." Morse said. "How long will you be?"

          "We're on our way back now, so not more than a few minutes." Thursday replied, then he signed off and replaced the handset. "Step on it, Strange."

They were back at the station in a few minutes, but Thursday could take no time to defrost themselves on the puny radiators lining the CID office, and went straight through to his office, where Morse was awkwardly standing just inside the door. The one seat in front of the desk was occupied by a woman who looked to be all angles, her harshly crimped hair falling straight down her back, clad in a black dress and small veil, as though attending a funeral. Which Thursday supposed she was, he thought as he took off his hat and offered initial condolences. The next time she saw her daughter, she would be laid out on a slab. Thursday put the thought to the back of his mind, and glanced at Mr Jay-Price. He was broad shouldered and tall, the complete opposite of his wife, and stood rigidly behind her, one white-knuckled hand on the back of the chair. Staring at the floor, he seemed to be in shock still. His sharp black suit looked fresh from the tailors but still didn't seem to fit him properly. Thursday sat down properly behind his desk, and Mrs Jay-Price's head snapped up.

          "Mr and Mrs Jay-Price, Detective Inspector Thursday. I'm so sorry for your-"

          "Is it her?" Mr Jay-Price had come out of his reverie, and was giving Thursday a hard stare. "Is it our little girl?"

          "That's what you're here to confirm, Mr Jay-Price." Thursday said calmly.

Strange was now at his desk in the CID office, and Morse wished that he could be at his too. Instead he was given the awkward task to chaperoning the grieving Jay-Prices to the wintry gloom of the morgue, witnessing the positive identification, and then escorting the blank Mr and wailing Mrs Jay-Price back to the station, where they were both seated in Thursday's office. As gently as he could, Thursday started questioning them.

          "I understand your daughter was studying law, Mrs Jay-Price."

          "Yes." She sniffed frequently, and her eyes didn't seem to be able to rest on anything.

          "How long had Stephanie been at Magdalen?"

          "Only a year. She was so happy to get the place- cried when she got her letter-" Mrs Jay-Price buried her face in her handkerchief.

The Inspector waited a couple of seconds, then continued. "Did she ever mention being in an argument with anyone? A boyfriend?"

          "No, Stephanie was the kindest- quietest-" Mrs Jay-Price broke down again, her husband taking her hand.

          "Did Stephanie have a boyfriend?" Thursday pressed.

          "She was going out with some…David, or other, but that ended a while back." Thursday raised his eyebrows and Mr Jay-Price elaborated "I don't remember exactly when." A fresh wave of sobs overcame Mrs Jay-Price, and her husband bent to comfort her.

Whilst his wife sniffled, Mr Jay-Price looked at the Inspector. "Please, this line of questioning is upsetting my wife. Are there any other questions?" Thursday had to think for a second before continuing. "Does your family more generally have any enemies, Mr Jay-Price?"

          "Enemies?” Mr Jay-Price replied with a snort, “There are people who dislike us, of course, but we don't have any enemies. Nobody who would do something like this."

          "What about him." Mrs Jay-Price broke in unexpectedly. "It could have been him that did it."

Thursday's ears had pricked. "Who's 'him', Mrs Jay-Price?"

          "It's not him, he wouldn't do this." Mr Jay-Price said to his wife, and then to the Inspector, "I know who she means; it wouldn't be him."

          "Who is he?" Thursday asked, regardless.

          "Our gardener, Crantree." Mrs Jay-Price spoke with a surprising amount of true hate in her tone. "He hates us for not giving him more money, but ten pounds a week, I ask you! What more does the man want?"

Morse could think of something, but he gave a small eye roll to Thursday from where he stood next to the door and kept silent. Thursday continued with the questioning.

          "Is that the only reason he has to dislike you?"

          "I shouldn't think that's a reason at all, but other than that no." Mrs Jay-Price said, a trifle haughtily. "We are most kind to him."

          "Would it be possible to speak with Mr Crantree at all?" Thursday asked.

          "Yes, he'll be around now doing the back garden until about twelve."

          "Even in the snow?" Thursday asked.

          "That's what we pay him for." Mrs Jay-Price returned.

Thursday glanced at the wall clock, and saw the time was quarter to eleven.

          "Well not necessarily now, we can't get down to Bristol in an hour and a half, maybe some time-"

          "Oh, no, he's our Oxford gardener." Mrs Jay-Price said. "We've a house on Grove Street."

* * *

The party took a car to the house, where it stood on a surprisingly ordinary street of houses in Summertown. The area was not living up to its name, being swathed in a thin but substantial layer of glaringly white powder snow, and alighting at the kerb outside the plain green door of number twelve, everyone was shivering. It was instantly clear to Morse why they didn't live here full time: The street was a terrace of flat-fronted houses, and one or more bicycle stood outside every residence, their handlebars and seats heavy with two centimetres of snow. The state of these, and the occasional owner visible in thick woolen coats and home-made jumpers, said that this was a student street.

          "Do you stay here often?" Morse asked, already know the answer.

          "Only ever one night, if we’ve come up for something of Stephanie's at the college." Mr Jay-Price said, digging out his key with slightly numb fingers and lifting it to unlock the door.

However, when he took the cold metal handle to hold the door steady, it pushed open without a key. Morse took an involuntary breath in, cold air sharp on his throat, and was instantly on the alert.

          "I'd better go first, Mr Jay-Price." he said, pushing the door open further.

          "Well hurry up, it's cold out here." Mrs Jay-Price said, seemingly regardless for the security of her house.

Thursday opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Jay-Price cut in again.

          "What's all the fuss about anyway? It's just Crantree." she said, sweeping past Morse. "He always forgets to lock the door when he comes."

          "He has a house key, then." Thursday said, whilst Morse exhaled heavily from the release of the tension.

          "Yes; we're hardly here to let him in." Mr Jay-Price said, as they all pressed into the slightly warmer interior.

However it was hardly a meaningful change in temperature, as the room was almost as cold as the frigid air outside. There was an out-of-fashion sofa, armchair and a couple of occasional tables scattered around, a small kitchenette in one corner and a square kitchen table. A staircase led to the upstairs. The whole place was swathed in shadows, as the windows had been shuttered for the winter. Reaching the back of the sparsely furnished house, Mrs Jay-Price stood back whilst her husband opened the stiff back door, and then called into the garden with an annoyed tone.

          "Crantree! The police want to speak to you!"

Morse didn't know what he was expecting Crantree to look like, but it wasn't what he saw. A man in his early thirties appeared from behind a low, leafless bush where he had been working. He had unkempt brown hair which fell variously from under his knitted hat to just above his shoulders, and was wearing dirty and patched denim overalls under a thick greatcoat. A trowel has held loosely in one gardening-gloved hand, a small plant in the other. When he saw Morse and Thursday, warrant cards out, he hurriedly put doth items down and took off his thin gloves, going to them over quickly.

          "Henry Crantree," he said, offering his hand, "I'm the gardener."

          "They know." Mrs Jay-Price said coldly. "They wish to conduct an interview."

Crantree retracted the unshaken hand, and looked around nervously.

          "Just a couple of questions, Mr Crantree." Morse reassured him.

Crantree nodded, and then Morse led him back into the sitting room. Mr and Mrs Jay-Price sat on the sofa whilst the two policemen and Crantree sat at the small, red, kitchen table for the interview.

          "Mud and snow all over the carpet," Mrs Jay-Price said in a not-so-quiet whisper, "tut-tut."

She looked daggers at the gardener, who looked stonily back. Thursday cleared his throat and looked straight at Crantree.

          "Where were you on Tuesday evening, Mr Crantree?"

          "I was…down the Arrow, with a couple of mates."

          "Until what time?"

          "We left gone eleven, then I went home and went to bed."

          "Eleven seems a bit early, Mr Crantree?" Morse asked. "Why not stay later?"

          "Well, I was getting tired by then, and I had work the Wednesday." He replied. "Here, as it happens, I pruned the roses at the back."

          "He's lying," Mrs Jay-Price broke in, "those roses aren't pruned, any fool can see that."

          "I hardly think a man's alibi can stand or fall on the state of your standards." Thursday said gently. "Anyone vouch for your whereabouts?"

          "Rich and Archie, they were with me until we left the pub."

          "And when you got home?"

          "Just the wife."

          "I see." Thursday was staring him down. "You like working for the Jay-Prices?"

          "They're alright," he said, with a definite glare to the sofa, "don't pay as much as I'd like, but what they say goes." There was aloud sigh from the sofa, but Crantree carried on. "What's this all about, anyway?"

          "What're your feelings regarding their daughter, Stephanie?"

Crantree blinked a couple of times. "Miss Jay-Price? She's ok, when I see her. Decent girl, very bright."

          "Then you'll be troubled to know that her body was discovered in the stream behind St. Catherine's college." Thursday said, carefully watching Crantree's face. "She'd been strangled with her own handkerchief."

The gardener's face drained of colour, and his hands, which had been in his lap, jumped onto the table. He looked over at where the Jay-Price's heads stuck over the back of the sofa. "No!"

          "Did you see her at any time on Tuesday evening, Mr Crantree?" Thursday asked, leaning forwards on the table.

          "No! I was in the Arrow until half eleven, and then-"

          "He said eleven before!" Mrs Jay-Price burst out, jumping to her feet. "It's him, he killed my Stephanie!"

Morse went over and stood by Crantree, who was staring wide-eyed. "It weren't me." he repeated, "It weren't

          "Mr Crantree, can anyone vouch for your whereabouts between eleven and one am last Tuesday to Wednesday?" Thursday pressed.

          "I was in the Arrow until half eleven, then I went home!"

          "Walk?"

          "Yeah!"

          "Which way? I'd've thought the Arrow was a bit out of the way for a place in Grove Street."

          "I don't live here," Crantree said, words tumbling from his frightened lips, "I've got a flat on the other side of town, Union Street."

          "And the Arrow is on St. Giles'," Morse broke in, "so that would give you the perfect route home via the back of St. Catherine's." He thought for a second, before adding, "That route would even take you past Magdalen college, where Miss Jay-Price studied."

          "I know what it looks like, but it weren't me!"

          "What wasn't you, Mr Crantree?" Thursday leaned forwards, his face inches from the suspect's. "What exactly didn't you do?"

Crantree swallowed, but he never broke the stare with the Inspector. "I did not strangle Miss Jay-Price." he said. "I would never-"

          "He's lying!" Mrs Jay-Price stood up, her voice steady and her finger pointing at Crantree. "He killed her, I know it. It's just a shame he's such a coward that he won't admit it."

In that second, with those words, something flipped in Crantree. His eyes fixed on Mrs Jay-Price, he sprung up from his seat, and pushed roughly past the small table sending it crashing to the floor. Before Morse or Thursday could do anything, he was on Mrs Jay-Price, and with one punch sent her reeling backwards, a scream on her lips. Springing into action, Thursday grabbed his arms and wrestled them behind his back. Crantree struggled against the Inspector, his eyes locked on Mrs Jay-Price, who was being comforted by her husband.

          "The lying bitc-"

          "That's enough!" Thursday thundered, shaking Crantree. "Morse, get a couple of uniforms down here."

Still keeping one eye on the potentially volatile situation, Morse stepped to the telephone and called up the station, asking for Strange and Harrison to come to the Grove Street address at once. Replacing the receiver, Morse helped Thursday lock Crantree in the bedroom upstairs, then Thursday went back downstairs and helped Mr Jay-Price treat the bruise rising on his wife's face. Morse remained upstairs in the chilly, unheated bedroom, watching over Crantree. Alone together in the room, Crantree simply stared out the frost-patterned window for a minute, until he turned to Morse.

          "I'm innocent."

          "Not by your performance downstairs, you aren't." Morse replied. "Even if you are innocent of murder, you can, and will, be charged with assault."

          "I didn't mean to," he said, looking genuinely remorseful, "it's just…she's so annoying." Morse raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "She doesn't pay me nearly enough for the work I do," Crantree continued, "and she's so condescending. Just because I'm not in the same 'social class' as her, she feels the need to bully me every time we meet."

Morse didn't respond, but agreed internally. Mrs Jay-Price was being unfair on him, and her only motive seemed to be her own faults regarding him. But, before Morse could say anything in return, the key grated in the lock and Strange opened the door, a light dusting of snow on his helmet.

          "Matey, you in here too?"

          "Only to look after him," Morse got up, with a hint of a smile, "I haven't done anything."

Strange cuffed Crantree, quoting assault, read him his rights, and then took him downstairs to the waiting police car. Following him down, Morse was met by an annoyed and bruised Mrs Jay-Price, an embarrassed Mr Jay-Price, a respectably tired Inspector Thursday, and a confused constable who he didn't know.

          "Only assault!" Mrs Jay-Price commented, as Morse walked past. "At least you're not letting a murderer walk free just yet."

          "Innocent until proven guilty, Mrs Jay-Price." Morse replied.

The business cleared up at the house, the Jay-Prices were taken back to the station in the car with the uniforms, whilst Morse and Thursday took the Jag. They were soon back at the Cowley station, and but there was no more outdoor action for them that day; there had to be investigations before the trial and they wouldn't fit into that day, and nothing could happen before those. However, even though this case was on hold for today, the rest of the criminal world wasn't. Strange was grudgingly sent off to get Edgar Thorpe’s full statement, and two break-ins and a gangland mugging were waiting on Morse's desk upon his return. As he sat down to start on them, not anticipating leaving the freezing office before midnight, Thursday came out of his office, hat and coat on, ready to go home already.

          "Staying on, Morse?"

          "There were some incidents whilst we were away, they won't take too long to deal with." Morse replied, seeing it was only five o'clock.

          "Just remember you've got to be up early tomorrow, for the investigations." Thursday sounded fatherly as he wound on his thick hand-knitted scarf. "Don't want to be falling asleep in front of the public, do we now."

Morse gave a flicker of a smile, and carried on tapping on the typewriter. "I'll manage, sir." With a last nod and a 'Night!', Thursday left the office, making his way home to help Win organise Mr and Mrs Curry coming down from Dorset in the week after Christmas. What an evening he had to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter a day keeps y'all happy


	4. Saturday 17th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7ELStfFlZk&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&index=8&t=0s)

* * *

The next morning, Morse was round at the Inspector's house bright and early, the Jag gleaming in the morning sunlight. He timed his arrival perfectly, as the Inspector was just opening to door when he pulled up to the curb.

          "Morning, sir."

          "Morse." Thursday said, climbing into the car.

He was just about to close the door when his hands flew to his pockets. "One minute, forgot my sandwiches."

          "I'll get them," Morse said, hand on the door handle, "say good morning to Mrs Thursday."

It was very cold outside the heated interior of the Jag, so much that Morse practically jogged up the path to the front door, retracing his DI's recent footsteps in half the time. Win opened the door just as he reached it, her arm holding out a brown paper package.

          "Here you go, dear," she said, shivering in the icy draught which rushed into the house through the open door, "be safe!"

Morse smiled in return, took the sandwiches and jogged back to the car, his breath misting like a steam train. Getting in, he passed the package to the Inspector, then slammed the door, chafing his hands.

          "I know it's cold, Morse, but it's not all that cold." Thursday said, worry written on his face.

          "I guess I feel the cold easier than others." Morse replied casually, pulling away into the road.

          "I guess you would, being thin as you are." Thursday replied, tone neutral and eyes fixed ahead.

A glace was the only reply Morse gave, realising there was no counter argument. He was thin, but there was nothing he would do about it.

          "Where are we going, then?" Thursday asked, after a minute of silence.

          "Magdalen College," Morse replied, "where Stephanie Jay-Price studied law. I thought we should see her room, tutors and friends, ask them if they knew anything."

          "Good idea," Thursday said, "at least your brain's not iced up like this car is."

They were at the college fifteen minutes later, driving through the large, snow-dusted wooden gates of the ancient establishment, parking in a courtyard surrounded by beautiful Oxfordian stone buildings. Getting out, they made their way through the carefully salted paths to the headmaster's study.

          "Detective Inspector Thursday, DC Morse, City Police." They both flashed their warrant cards as introduction once they were inside the cosy office. "We're here to see the room of Miss Stephanie Jay-Price, I believe she was a student here."

          "She was?" The Master was a short, bespectacled man, with a kind face, "She's not in any trouble, I hope? She's missed a couple of lectures these last few days, but always such a delightful student."

          "Master, I'm sorry to have to tell you that Miss Jay-Price's body was found in Holywell Stream last Wednesday." Thursday said, as gently as he could. "She was murdered."

The master sat down suddenly. "Good god…murdered, you say?"

          "Yes, sir, we're here on investigations." Thursday continued.

          "Well, I shall assist you in every way possible." the master said in a sad and shocked voice. "It's the least I can do."

          "The first thing we need is to see her room," the Inspector asked, "and if we would be able to talk to a couple of her friends that would be very helpful."

          "Of-of course…" the master seemed to be very shocked by Miss Jay-Price's death. "The porter can show you to her room, I think."

The master directed them down from the office to the parking area, where they met a tall, thin man who introduced himself as Frenzy. His smart suit seemed to be wilting, as though it were alive, even in the snow and ice that covered the picturesque buildings.

          "Miss Jay-Price's room?" he asked, leading them into the snowy main quad of the college. "Nothing amiss, I hope?"

Morse and Thursday exchanged a glance.

          "It's a private matter." Morse eventually replied. "I'm sure the master will tell everyone in due course."

Frenzy nodded, knowing it would be wrong to ask more questions. Soon after that, they reached Stephanie's staircase and climbed to the third floor, where the porter knocked on the door.

          "I'm afraid I haven't seen Miss Jay-Price for a few days, so I'm not sure if she'll be in," Frenzy said, knocking again, "I have the key though, if it's only her room you wish to see."

          "Please." Thursday said, and then watched as the door was unlocked. "When did you see Miss Jay-Price last?"

Frenzy thought for a minute, slowing in the act of opening the door. "Last Tuesday, I should think, coming back from a lecture."

          "What time?" Thursday asked, walking into the small student apartment.

          "Not too late, around five in the afternoon or thereabouts."

Whilst Thursday continued questioning, Morse looked around the rooms. There were only two, a bedroom and a bathroom, the kitchen being a shared one at the bottom of the staircase, and both of them were very neatly organised. The desk opposite the window was neatly set out, papers stacked in piles according to lecture or tutorial, all inscribed with the date, topic, and 'S J-P' in a neat print. There were several more piles on the floor, and some files labelled by the area of law they referred to. Taking a quick look through her notes and files, Morse only found one thing of interest.

          "Sir, I think you should see this."

Inspector Thursday broke off his conversation with Frenzy and came over, taking the small scrap of paper which Morse held out to him. He read it out.

          "Steph, meet me down by the ford this evening, around half eleven. Judge…Rierdon?" Thursday looked up, "Who's he?"

          "Her tutor," Frenzy put in, to the officers surprise, "she had most of her sessions with him."

          "Looks like he's our murderer then, not Crantree." Morse said, putting the note in his pocket.

          "Murderer?" the voice came from a girl who stood in the open doorway, books clutched to her chest. "Who's been murdered? What's happening?"

          "Would you be a friend of Miss Stephanie Jay-Price?" Morse asked.

          "Yes; who are you and why are you in her room?" She asked, as she made her way into the room, adding a muttered "Hello, Frenzy."

          "Thank you for your help, you're free to go." Morse said to the porter, and as he was leaving introduced himself. "DC Morse and DI Thursday," warrant cards were flashed as he introduced them both, "who are you?"

          "Annie Airbridge, I'm in Steph’s law class." Annie replied.

          "Would that be the one with Judge Rierdon?" Morse asked.

          "No, he was her personal tutor. I had Judge Bisson as mine. What're all the questions for?"

Morse nodded an acknowledgement, and then left it to Thursday to break the news.

          "I'm very sorry, Miss Airbridge, but Miss Jay-Price's body was recovered from the steam behind St. Catherine's college last Wednesday." Thursday said gently. "She had been murdered."

Annie sat down suddenly on the bed, as though her legs had been knocked from under her, her books tumbling to the floor. Her face was a mask of shock, wide eyes and hanging jaw. Morse awkwardly picked up the books, unsure of what else to do.

          "I know this is a very trying time, Miss Airbridge," Thursday put in, "but I do have to ask you a couple of questions."

The only reply was a small sniffle and a nod.

          "Did Miss Jay-Price have any arguments with anyone earlier in the week?"

          "No, she seemed normal. Completely fine." Annie replied.

          "Did she have a boyfriend?"

          "Yeah, but she broke it off with him a couple of months ago." Annie dabbed at her eyes with a hankie. "Said she found someone better, but anyone would be better than David Greenacre."

          "Do you know where Mr Greenacre is, so we could speak to him?"

          "He left Oxford right after their break up, and good riddance to him." Annie replied. "Don't know where he went, and don't care either."

          "Any enemies?"

          "Enemies? Steph was the kindest girl I've met, nobody hated her. I only hated Greenacre because of what he said to her."

          "What did he say?" Morse asked.

          "That she was…well…I'd rather not repeat it." Annie said. "It really wasn't very nice."

Finished with their questions for the present, Morse and Thursday left Miss Airbridge in the hands of the porter, who was as shocked to hear of Miss Jay-Price's death as everyone else. Making their way back to the Jag, they bumped into the Master.

          "Did you see everything you needed to, gentlemen?" he enquired, "I do hope you didn't miss Miss Airbridge, I sent her along to see you."

          "We met her, thank you Master." Thursday replied. "We might have to return at some point in the future, but we're all done for now."

          "Anything, gentlemen, anything at all I can do to assist your investigation." With that they bade the Master goodbye and set off again.

          "Back to the station then, Morse?"

          "Not quite yet sir, there's two more places we've got to visit." Morse said. "I rang up Mr Crantree's house and found out from his wife the address of the two friends he was supposedly at the Arrow with. I thought we should check that they corroborate the story."

          "Good idea," Thursday said, sitting back in the plush seat, "wonder I didn't think of that."

Really though, it wasn't a wonder to Thursday at all. Morse was getting sharper with every case, and he had the makings of a fine detective, an Inspector even, if only he could stop putting himself in the firing line over everyone else. He needed to knuckle down through his Sergeant's, bag a few good cases, and then see where it led him; but that said he wasn't doing nothing as a Constable. The amount of baffling cases he had tackled with the apparent ease and skill of a fine craftsman was incredible, even though Thursday knew it took a toll on the lad. During the last case, of a particularly imaginative arsonist, Morse had hardly slept all week, to the point of collapse just before he was about to deliver his conclusion. He'd got through it alright, but the boy working himself to the bone on every case couldn't be, no wasn't, good at all. Soon enough, Thursday was drawn from his reverie by the smooth stop of the Jag outside a rather run-down looking terrace.

          "This is the home of Richard Bulmer, the 'Rich' that Crantree was talking about when we questioned him yesterday." Morse said, knocking on the door.

It was opened a couple of seconds later by a dark, suspicious face.

          "What do you want?"

          "Detective Constable Morse, DI Thursday, City Police." Morse showed his warrant card. "We've just got a couple of questions to ask, Mr Bulmer."

          "What time did you leave the arrow last Tuesday?" Thursday asked, once they were seated on the lumpy sofa inside.

          "Half eleven." Rich answered, without hesitation.

          "And who were you with?"

          "Archie Theobald and Henry Crantree."

          "What state was Mr Crantree in?"

          "Drunk as a skunk." Rich replied, with a small smile. "He could just about stagger across the street."

          "So one of you took him home, I presume." Morse asked, ears pricked for an alibi.

          "No, he wouldn't let us. Said he would sober up more alone, and he needed to be sober for the wife."

          "And you didn't insist on seeing him home, him in that state?" Morse said, surprised.

          "Well, I live in the opposite direction, so I didn't see the want to push it." Rich said, slightly embarrassed at his selfishness. "He could walk alright, I watched him down the street."

          "Where was Mr Theobald in all this?"

          "Archie got picked up, so I-"

          "Mr Theobald was arrested?" Morse exclaimed.

          "No, one of his other mates was passing, and gave him a lift home." Rich clarified." I wasn't going that way, so I had to walk."

Morse considered, then asked "For the record, can anyone confirm your story?"

          "My wife should be able to recall the time I got in, slammed the door a bit too hard and woke her up."

          "Is that right, Mrs Bulmer?" Thursday aimed the question to woman who had appeared in the door.

          "So it is, Inspector," Mrs Bulmer replied, "gave me a right good scaring. Thought that place was being broken into, I did, but it was only my Richie."

Thursday nodded. "Where could we find Mr Theobald?" he asked.

          "I've already got his address, Sir," Morse broke in, "we're going there next."

          "You got the right one?" Bulmer asked, "Only, he moved recently."

          "I got the one that was on the records this morning, and I should hope for Mr Theobald's sake that they are up to date." Morse replied. "20 Cord Terrace, isn't it?"

          "No, he's at 39 Acres Place now." Bulmer corrected. "Only moved in last weekend, mind."

          "The record should have been updated." Morse said, once they were back in the car. "It's lucky we went to Mr Bulmer first, or we wouldn't have known."

          "Well, all's well," Thursday said, "let's get over there before lunch, then we can review this afternoon."

The car slowed and stopped at a set of lights.

          "You never did tell me, sir," Morse said, "what did Frenzy tell you at Magdalen?"

          "Oh him," Thursday replied, "nothing much useful. Said that Stephanie never went out after dark unless she was with someone, and that he hadn’t seen her go out on the night she was killed. He also has an alibi for the night in question."

          "So he wasn't any use then."

          "None," Thursday sighed, "we'll have to see what this Judge Rierdon has to say for himself though, it's looking more and more like him."

          "Crantree's alibi still isn't solid though." Morse said. "He could have been feigning being drunk, murdered her, and then gone home. That would support what his wife said."

          "What did she say?"

          "That he was hardly drunk at all when he came in the door." Morse replied, thinking back to the earlier telephone conversation. "He was quite tipsy, but not 'drunk as a skunk' as Mr Bulmer described."

Exchanging a glance, they pulled up outside 39 Acres Place, and got out. Morse knocked on the door, stepped back and waited. When no answer came within a couple of seconds, he knocked again, and called.

          "Mr Theobald, are you in?" A low moan responded, the tone which Morse had to strain to hear. "Mr Theobald, it's the police, we're coming in!"

Putting his shoulder to the door, the flimsy lock easily burst open.

          "You check down here, I'll go up." Thursday said, taking the stairs two at a time.

Morse rushed into the front room, quickly ascertaining that there was nobody there. The kitchen was also empty, and it was at that point that he heard Thursday's call.

          "Morse, he's up here!"

Following in the Inspector's footsteps, Morse bounded up the stairs and ran into the room that Thursday had called from. The first thing he saw was presumably Mr Theobald, collapsed on his bed. To Morse's surprise, he was giggling slightly.

          "He's the one who was drunk as a skunk, not Crantree," Thursday said, "he must have been dropped at home and only just staggered up here.

          "Not married then." Morse put in.

          "If he was, she's certainly gone." Thursday replied. "I've never known anyone but a man to suffer this kind of domestic chaos for any length of time."

Morse slapped Theobald's face lightly. "Mr Theobald, can you hear me?"

          "I can heeear youuu!" he replied, giggling.

His breath stunk of alcohol and Morse's disgust showed on his face. "Shall we take him back to the station?"

          "No, leave him be." Thursday replied. "He'd only be a nuisance in the office, and he's clearly been in or near this state for the past few days, probably helped along by a few more trips to the boozer." He looked around at the room, clear of any empties. "He got ginned up at the Arrow, then dropped home, and has been back and forth to the pubs ever since. Clearly he doesn't hold it as well as the others."

Morse had to agree, and so they went back to the car, slamming Theobald's door behind them and hoping that it locked.

          "Pub?" Thursday asked, as they dropped into the Jag.

          "Sure." Morse replied, and they pulled away.

At the pub, Morse returned from the bar with the two pints.

          "What do you reckon it is today, then?" Thursday asked, taking his wrapped sandwiches from his pocket.

          "Saturday, who knows?" Morse said with a small smile, placing one of the glasses before his Inspector.

          "Corned beef," Thursday discovered, "left over from yesterday."

Morse sipped his pint, then went to open his paper, before realising it was a Saturday.

          "Lost for something to do, Morse?" Thursday chided, "why not tot up the facts on this case then."

          "Alright," Morse put down the glass and wiped his top lip, "Miss Stephanie Jay-Price, found strangled behind St Catherine's college last Wednesday. Her parents think that she was killed by their gardener Henry Crantree. For motive they're saying revenge against the family, who weren't treating him very well by normal standards, but fine by theirs. His opportunity came when he came home late from the Arrow on Tuesday night, and his path home could have taken him right past the stream Miss Jay-Price was-"

Thursday butted in, half way through his sandwich. "What about Rierdon? The Judge who wrote the note. What do we know about him?"

          "All we know is that he asked Stephanie to meet him 'by the ford this evening, around half eleven', which strongly points to him having killed her. We're driving over to see him after we're finished here."

          "I was wondering when you'd get around to that," Thursday said, "shouldn't we have gone to see him soonest, if he might be a murderer?"

          "I did think of that, sir, but he's one of the main Judges at the Crown Court." Morse replied. "He'll have hearings all day, so the best time to catch him would be his lunch hour."

* * *

When they arrived at the court after their lunch, the lawyers lunch-time was just beginning. After checking the listings, they waited outside court seven for their quarry to appear. A couple of minutes later, a wigged figure carrying a briefcase emerged.

          "Judge Rierdon?"

He turned abruptly to face the source of the sound, and was met by the stony face of Inspector Thursday.

          "Who are-"

          "Detective Inspector Thursday, Oxford City Police." was the growled reply. "My bagman and I just have a couple of questions to ask you."

Back in the court, the three of them stood in front of the public seating.

          "You tutor Stephanie Jay-Price, from Magdalen college?"

          "Yes, I do."

          "When'd you last see her?"

          "Not lately, she's missed the last couple of tutorials. Earlier in the week sometime."

Thursday held up the note found in Stephanie's room.

          "Recognise this?"

          "No, should I?"

          "It's got your signature on it," Morse interrupted, "and if that is your signature, I'd like to know your whereabouts between eleven and midnight last Tuesday evening."

The Judge took the note and looked carefully at the signature. "That's not mine," he finally concluded, "although I do recognise the handwriting. Who sent this?"

          "That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Morse said. “Who's is it then?"

          "Oh, I couldn't put a name to it, I just think I've seen this before somewhere." he said airily. "I see a lot of handwriting in my job, you know."

          "And your whereabouts last Tuesday evening?"

          "I was at a dinner party,- what's all this about? I have lunch to get to-"

          "You are currently being interviewed as a suspect in the murder of your tutee, Judge Rierdon, so I think lunch can wait." Morse said forcefully. "Who else was at the dinner party?"

          "Steph, murdered? What-"

          "The dinner party, Judge."

          "A few other Judges; Dempsey, Coulson, Fawce, Mariner, but why am I-"

          "And how long were you there?"

          "From seven until gone one." Rierdon replied. "At the end, my wife came and picked me up in the car, and we went home. Please, what's-"

          "We'll be talking to your wife to check that," Morse said, "and we may have to contact you again to check some details."

          "Why am I a suspect in this?" Judge Rierdon was practically pleading with them. "I didn't kill her, she was my tutee!"

          "Motive isn't always obvious, Judge." Thursday said coldly.

There was a moment of silence in the court.

          "Well, I hope I've been helpful. Gentlemen…" Rierdon brushed past them with an air of distain and left the court, doors flapping.

Thursday and Morse followed at a more leisurely pace, strolling back out into the snow and ice to where the Jag was parked.

          "Well we'll have to check his alibi, of course, but I don't think it was him." Thursday said, as they walked down the steps. "He seemed pretty- Morse?"

The young officer was staring at the sky, hands in pockets.

          "What about the means?"

          "Morse?" Thursday was confused, "Take your hands out your pockets or you'll slip."

          "Means, motive, opportunity, the three things that make a murderer." Morse replied, finally turning his bright eyes to Thursday. "What were Crantree's means?"

          "Stephanie was strangled with a handkerchief, " the DI said, "what does that have to do with anything?"

          "It wasn't her handkerchief." Morse said, hurrying into the Jag. "From her papers in her room, whenever she abbreviated her surname she put a dash between the 'J' and the 'P'. The handkerchief didn't have that dash."

          "Meaning the embroiderer made a mistake-"

          "Or, it wasn't hers." Morse said, as the car pulled onto the dangerously down the icy streets. "We need to show it to Crantree, and see what he can tell us."

After a quick stop up at the incident room to pick up the item, the two officers thundered down the stairs to the cell where Crantree was being held for assault. However, the door was hanging open, and Strange was standing in the corridor.

          "Where's Crantree?" Morse asked, staring in disbelief at the empty cell.

          "We didn't keep him in, matey," Strange replied, "let him out yesterday, 'cause it was only assault."

Morse gave an exasperated sigh, then turned to Thursday.

          "His Union Street address."

          "Let's get over there…"

Jumping back in the Jag, they were soon there. Morse hammered on the door with his fist.

          "Mr Crantree!"

It was opened after a couple of seconds revealing Crantree, dressed in the same gardening overalls as the last time they had seen him.

          "Officers, what can I-"

          "Where did you get this?" Morse shoved the handkerchief in Crantree's face.

          "I- I haven't- what's-"

          "We've check up on your alibi, and none of its solid." Morse said, pushing his way into the house. "It wouldn't have been that hard to engineer, thinking about it."

          "What are you talking about-"

          "Seen this before?" Morse thrust the note at Crantree.

          "No."

          "You must have seen it to write it, good touch putting her tutor's signature on it."

          "That wasn't me!" Crantree cried. "I never sent that note!"

          "And what is there to say you didn't," Thursday said, "your word and what else?"

          "I- well-"

          "Henry Crantree, you're under arrest for the lure and murder of Stephanie Jay-Price." Morse said. "You don't have to say anything, but-"

          "This isn't fair, it wasn't me!" Crantree cried, as he was led towards the front door.

          "-anything you do say-" Morse struggled to hold arrestee's arms together.

Suddenly, Crantree lashed out, his arm hitting Morse across the face and sending him reeling. Thursday jumped forwards, slamming Crantree into the wall, and called back to his bagman.

          "Morse? You alright?"

          "I'm fine," Morse replied, rubbing his cheekbone where a light bruise was forming, "nothing damaged."

          "You do that again, and you'll get much worse than what you gave." Thursday growled in Crantree's ear. "Lucky your wife's not in, isn't it?"

Crantree's fighting spirit subsided, and by the time they got him into the back of the Jag, he was staring moodily at the floor. Thursday sat in the back with him as Morse drove them back to the station. Once Crantree was back in the cells, Thursday invited Morse into his office.

          "I'll try and get a quick hearing scheduled," Thursday said, pouring himself a glass, "it'd be good if this was all over by Christmas."

          "As long as justice is served." Morse said with a small smile, declining the offered glass.

          "He's the murderer, Morse, there's no other explanation." Thursday said. "Now, about that other case, those bank details getting into the Mail."

          "I haven't had time to do any more on that, what with this strangling." Morse said, getting up. "I'll get right on it though."

          "You'd better," Thursday said, not unkindly, "Bright's getting worried how far it's going to spread, what with the new figures in this morning's."

Morse had hardly sat down at his desk when Thursday came out behind him.

          "It can wait for now, though. Go home, get some sleep, and come in later tomorrow, it going to be a Sunday and all."

          "But, I can-"

          "Get gone. Saturday's a day for relaxation, not work." Thursday said. "I don't like working weekends before Christmas either, but needs must with Henderson down in London for the duration, and Dexter going last Friday."

          "Really sir, there's nothing for me to at-"

          "Put a record on, Morse, anything for a break." Thursday said, handing Morse his coat. "I'll see you at mine, ten tomorrow."

Resigned to his fate, Morse sighed as he got up. "Sir." Pulling his coat on as he left the office, he considered his few options for the evening; something light and then an early night, most likely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one'll come up on tumblr tomorrow because of the protest <3


	5. Sunday 18th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Spwq6JDS9-g&index=13&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&t=0s)

* * *

The next morning Morse woke up at his usual early hour, only to remember that he didn't have to be moving for another two. On the brink of going back to sleep, hoping he might wake up at the right time next time, he caught sight of his record player in the corner of the room, the disk from last night lying still on the deck. The world outside was dark, the moon gone but the sun still yet to come, and everything seemed completely peaceful; not even any cars in the surrounding streets could be heard. These moments of peace were rare, with everything that had been going on, and he lay back on his thin pillow, savouring it. This felt like it would be a good time to put the record, possibly a serene aria from _Otello_ , but to break the silence seemed sacrosanct. And so, for once apart from his hectic life, Morse simply lay and listened to the silence, watching his breath mist on the air, as the sun rose and filled his cold apartment with feeble fire. However, before he knew it, a glance at the clock told him it was quarter past nine, so time to be getting up. Dressing quickly, he walked briskly through the cold morning air to the station, picked up the Jag, and headed over to Inspector Thursday's house, heating on full pelt all the way. Knocking on the door, it was quickly answered.

          "Morse, on a Sunday?" Win said, gesturing for him to come in. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

          "I said, it's just normal." DI Thursday interrupted coming down the stairs, before Morse had a chance to answer. "We're short on bodies, and everyone needs to pull their weight."

          "Well, if you've get to…" Win trailed off, and went into the kitchen to get her husband's sandwiches.

          "Sleep well, Morse?" Thursday asked, putting on his tie in the hall mirror.

          "Yes, thank you sir." Morse replied. "You?"

          "Oh, same as usual- thanks, love." he took the sandwiches off Win with a peck on the cheek, then picked up his coat and hat. "I'll see you later."

          "Be safe," Win said, and then when Fred was about to walk out, "and put your coat on before you freeze."

With a small eye roll the DI put his coat on, then went out to where Morse had been waiting on the porch.

          "Anything in?" Thursday asked, as they made their way to the car.

          "Another envelope of figures to the Oxford Mail." Morse replied. "That's the third one so far. Other than that a couple of road traffic accidents, but uniform are dealing with them." Morse reported, starting the powerful engine.

          "Good." Thursday said. "Just what we need, week before Christmas, peace and quiet."

They drove in silence for a while, Morse intent on his driving, the reports of the traffic accidents still fresh on his mind. Strange had just been going out to one when he had arrived at the station, wearing three extra layers and looking none too pleased to be pulled away from the heater in the office. Soon enough, the Jag pulled up at the station, and Morse and Thursday dispersed to their desks, the clock reading twenty past ten. After fishing out the case's folder, Morse read through the notes again. Summary: some figures from the Wessex Bank concerning Oxfordian society figures had been anonymously delivered to the Oxford Mail, and Miss Frazil had reported it to the police, suspecting some sort of foul play. Seeing as nobody was being harmed by them, Thursday had initially wanted to drop the case to focus on more important once, but once Bright had got wind of it that was impossible. Some police names had been mentioned in the first article, and a couple of figures had come out on them since, and whilst these events hadn't had any repercussions so far, it was only a matter of time according to County. So, it had come up as a priority, and Morse had to find out where the figures were coming from preferably in time for all those involved to enjoy a stress-free Christmas.

          "Where are you off to, Morse?" Thursday called out from his office, seeing Morse pick up his coat.

          "The bank," he replied, "I'm going to see the manager."

          "Can't that come later, after preliminaries?" Thursday asked, puffing at his pipe.

          "I think this is the quickest route to an end, sir." Morse said. "Bright says he wants it finished as soon as possible, so…"

          "Alright then." Thursday went back to his typewriter, the keys tapping onto the report as Morse's shoes tapped out of the room.

Taking the Jag to the bank would have been nice, but a waste, as it was only a few minutes' walk away from the station. Wrapping his coat around him as much as he could, he set off into the cold. A blanket of powder snow had covered Oxford almost since the beginning of December, and it had only got thicker and thicker as the days progressed. Streets were bright from the reflective drifts, and everyone out in the bitter wind wore as much clothing as possible. Cars crawled at sluggish speeds on the busier roads, the speed limit not set by the signs but by the scraped and dented cars that lay by the kerbs after unfortunate collisions. Morse spotted Strange across the street at one of them, but no greeting was exchanged, as Morse was only too keen to get to the relative warmth of the bank. Lightly stamping a little snow off his leather shoes, Morse showed his warrant to one of the girls behind the counter, who then showed him to the manager's office, the name plaque of which read 'Cyril Cheever'.

          "Yes? Who is it?"

          "Detective Constable Morse, City Police." Morse said, showing him and his warrant card into the small office.

Even for the size of the place, it was very warm, and Morse had to take off his scarf to save from overheating. The manager, a fairly average looking man wearing a smart suit, gestured for Morse to sit down.

          "How can I help you, Constable?"

          "Mr Cheever, I'm here in enquiries about the bank details which have recently appeared in the Oxford Mail." Morse said. "I was wondering what you know about that?"

          "Enough to tell you that it was not in any way deliberate, I assure you." the manager replied.

          "Be that as it may, they are still there." Morse said. "Could I have a sample of your official paper, to compare with the paper we have as evidence?"

The manager fumbled in the drawer for a minute before handing Morse a sheaf of blank headed paper. "Anything else?"

          "Yes, just a couple of questions." Morse said. "There was a note with the figures, hand written. I don't suppose you recognise this?" He put the  note from 'Anonymous' from on the table and turned it round.

          "No, I don't think so." The manager passed the paper back. "Should I?"

          "You tell me, Mr Cheever." Morse said.

Evading the question, the manager changed the subject.

          "I suppose that the figures had to be released by someone who works at the bank," the manager said in a resigned voice, "to be able to get their hands on such sensitive information."

          "Exactly." Morse said. "Who would have had access to these figures?"

          "Well, we work with a few contractors, but only the accountants, lawyers, bookers-"

          "Who's in your law team?" Morse asked, taking out his notebook.

          "Oh, I'm not sure, I don't work with them."

          "Who does then?" Morse asked, his eyes wide and face set. "I need names, Mr Cheever."

After a second, Cheever opened his filing cabinet and pulled out a folder, sliding it across the desk to Morse. Opening it, the DC found from the heading that the papers were not from the bank but the Crown Court. He raised his eyebrows at Cheever.

          "Oh, we're not involved with anyone legally," Cheever said, putting Morse's mind to rest, "we're having some of their judges look over our terms and agreements, make sure they're sound."

Morse nodded. "You don't mind if I take these papers, just for a while?"

          "Of course not, if only you find out who the damn sent them." Cheever said. "I'd rather this business was headed off, before anyone gets hurt by it."

          "Us too, Mr Cheever." Morse said, turning to leave.

          "Not good for business, you know." Cheever said, stopping Morse in his tracks, half turning his head back. "Not good at all."

Nodding, Morse tucked the file under his arm and left, with a last "I'll be seeing you, Mr Cheever." Putting his scarf on again, Morse made his way back into the cold world outside, hurrying back to the station through a light bout of snow that was falling. By the time he was half way to the station, however, it had turned into something more, with icy winds clawing round every old stone building, forcing their way through Morse's thin car coat and light suit. With no hat or gloves, the young officer quickly began to feel the cold, and as the visibility lowered he became worried that he might not know the streets of Oxford as well as he hoped. Hurrying round a corner, he blundered straight into someone coming the other way at a considerable pace, throwing his balance. With one hand planted firmly in his pocket, the other flew out, the folder from the bank soaring away. He felt himself falling, but luckily his hand scraped the icy ground before his head did, breaking his fall. Realising he must be in the road, he rolled into the kerb just in time to hear a squeal of breaks, and see a seemingly huge red car swerve on its way. The person he had walked into appeared at his side.

          "You alright- matey?"

          "Strange!" Morse was relieved and annoyed at the same time. "Watch where you're going next time, would you?"

What Morse could see of Strange behind a large woollen scarf looked embarrassed as he held out a hand to Morse.

          "You hurt? That was some fall you took."

Morse thought for a minute. "Nothing broken." he replied, inspecting his hand. To his annoyance, he found the skin raw and a couple of small pieces of grit from the road lodged in it.

          "Better get that cleaned up back at the station." Strange said, picking up the folder that lay on the pavement. "Yours, I presume?"

          "Yes, from the bank." Morse dusted his coat off. "Where were you off to at such a speed, anyway?"

          "Car accident earlier thinks they left something at the scene," Strange said, "and you need to hurry to keep warm in this climate. I can see you back to the station though, make sure you don't fall foul of any more speeding officers?"

          "My hand took the fall for my head," Morse replied with a small smile, "I think I'll make it on my own."

With that, the two officers parted ways, and Morse continued with renewed caution to Cowley station. After stamping the snow off his shoes, Morse made his way to his desk and added the folder to the pile of bank documents taken from the Mail. Then, feeling it was still sore, Morse made his way to the bathroom and washed his hand. After managing to get one piece of grit out, one remained. At that point, Inspector Thursday walked in.

          "Morse." he said, walking on past before seeing the focus of his bagman's attentions. "What happened to you?"

          "Oh, nothing, sir." Morse replied in a depreciating tone. "Just slipped over."

          "Where, on a grater? Your hand's red raw." Morse tried to pull his sleeve over it, But Thursday suddenly took his hand and pulled it back. "What happened?" he asked, looking at the piece of grit.

          "I walked into Strange on the way back from the bank, and fell in the road." Morse said. "It wasn't- ow- a bad fall,-"

          "But bad enough." Thursday said, throwing the piece of grit in the bin. "Wash that again then go home."

          "Sir, it's just a graze, what's-"

          "This is nothing to do with your hand, there's just nothing else going on here." Thursday said. "What did you find out at the bank?"

          "Oh something and nothing," Morse said, doing up his cuff buttons again, "I spoke to the manager and got some paper to compare with that that the figures came on, and also found out that only a select group of people had access to those sorts of figures, including their law team, which operates at the Crown Court."

          "And?"

          "And, that's where Judge Rierdon works."

          "And?" Thursday repeated.

          "Well, don't you agree there's a connection?"

          "Only circumstantial, and not even that, really." Thursday said. "Lots of people work at the Court, Morse, and it's hardly odd for the Bank to deal with them. We can't say that Judge Rierdon has anything to do with these figures."

          "No, but his name has come up in the figures." Morse said. "He was one of the people on the first page."

          "And so many others, Morse." Thursday moved to the door. "Come on, let's get home, it is a Sunday after all."

* * *

Arriving back at his flat at just gone half ten, Morse was surprised to see a man waiting outside his door, clipboard in hand.

          "Can I help you?" he asked, digging in his pocket for his flat key.

          "Would you be Mr Ende-"

          "DC, and yes?" Morse cut in.

          "You rent this flat." the man said, glancing at his clipboard.

          "That is why I've got the key." Morse said, holding it up.

          "Well, I'll be needing that." the man said, reaching for it, but Morse pulled it out of his reach.

          "Who are you, anyway?" Morse asked, incredulous. "What do you want with me?"

          "I am Mr Fenton Fitzgerald, the agent of your landlord," Fitzgerald said, "and I've been waiting outside this door the past half hour to tell you that your rent's up."

Morse stared, agape. "I thought that ran out on Tuesday?"

          "Well, you thought wrong, didn't you?" Fitzgerald's tone was snarky, too snarky for Morse. "So, you need to be out by the end of the day."

          "But my new place- I only get the keys to that on Tuesday." Morse argued. "Can't I pay for this place until Tuesday, then-"

          "You can pay for another month, or not at all." the agent said, with a sharp tone. "This flat has other tenants interested, ones who keep up to date with their payments. Good day, _DC_ Morse." He finished mockingly, then turned and left, disappearing down the stairs quickly.

Left alone on the landing, Morse sighed as he unlocked the door. Opening it, he looked around with a view to packing stuff up, and realised for the first time what a tip his flat was in. Clearing up seemed like a daunting task, so he got straight to it, starting with his clothing into a small suitcase. After that it was onto the living room, where he began with the sideboard, wondering where all this was going to go. He guessed he could find a corner of the evidence lock-up or somewhere, and kip and his desk for a couple of nights, not for the first time. Half way through his second book shelf, a copy of part one of Anna Karenina in his hand, there was a knock on the door. Wondering who it could be this time- someone from the gas board asking for a payment with his luck- he opened the door with a less than amiable "What?".

          "Just me, matey." PC Strange stood before him in the corridor, looking apologetic. "Heard you'd gone home, just wanted to check you were ok after the fall this morning."

          "Why does everyone- oh, come in." Morse said, opening the door wider.

Strange stepped inside, and looked around. "Been tidying?" he asked, looking at the neatness around Morse's bed where it was devoid of detritus, unlike the rest of the room.

          "Rent's up," Morse explained, "and I've got to be out by the end of today. Just gets better and better." he added under his breath.

          "What's your new place like, the one you went to visit?" Strange asked, helping his friends pack books into a box as they were handed down to him.

          "Oh, nice enough," Morse said, "but the price hasn't come down." he added jokingly.

          "Tough luck." Strange sighed. "Where'll you kip in the interim?"

          "Oh, desks are getting softer every day." Morse said dryly, with a hint of a smile.

Putting down the last book, Strange looked appalled. "You've nowhere else to go?"

          "Well I can't exactly aske the Inspector, can I." Morse closed the lid of the box.

          "What about staying at mine for a couple of nights?"

Morse blinked, surprised by the kindness. "Really, I couldn't-"

          "Don't be silly. You can't kip at your desk, Bright would kill you." Strange clapped Morse on the shoulder. "I'll help you take these boxes over to mine later."

          "If you're sure…" Morse replied.

They held gazes for a second, then Morse turned away, picking up some records which lay nearby. Strange turned around and picked up his uniform jacket where it had been discarded over the back of a chair, then made his way towards the door.

          "I've got a beat to be getting back to, but I'll be back around three?"

          "Whenever suits you," Morse replied, "and thanks again."

          "No trouble, matey. Any time."

With that Strange was gone, and Morse finished putting his treasured records into their moving box, and then continued his tidying journey around his flat. He hadn't realised how much he'd settled in in the time he'd been living there, and was surprised to find letters and record booklets down the back of sofas, chairs and cabinets. Finally, when all of his boxes and suitcases of possessions were stacked in the middle of what had been the living room, he sat down on the sofa and looked up at the clock. Finding it was not there, being packed away, he had to hunt it down before discovering the time to be two thirty. Strange not due for half an hour, he took a quick check around the bedsit for any other items, and passing the window, took what was surely to be one of his last views from this flat. Being so busy, he'd forgotten how good his top-floor perspective of Oxford was, though narrow. The entire sky was white, but not a steady white: light twinkled off the steadily falling snow, making the heavenly vault alive with daytime stars. What stone spires could be seen through the snow-induced gloom were dusted rather generously with blindingly white snow, contrasting against the narrower streets closer at hand, which were caught up in the surprising daytime gloom that so often accompanies snow storms. After all his work putting everything away, Morse didn't feel the cold radiating from the thin glass, even in his thin shirtsleeves. After a few more moments admiring the view, he turned and picked up the record which lay on top of the box; _Un Bel Di, Vedremo_ from Madame Butterfly. Slotting it onto his record player, the last thing remaining to be put away, he returned to the window, hands in pockets, as the aria began.

          "… _la lunga attesa. E uscito_ …"

All too soon, the knock at the door came, and Morse opened it to find a still-uniformed and lightly snow-dusted Strange.

          "You didn't have to come straight from your shift," Morse said, packing away the record player, "I could have waited a little longer."

          "Thought the uniform might do us favours when we're travelling." Strange said as he picked up the closest two boxes.

Morse shrugged, picking up the suitcase, record player, and small occasional table. "Where are we taking these?"

          "The car I borrowed, it's parked outside." Strange led the way down the many flights of stairs.

In only a matter of minutes Morse's old flat lay bare, all his worldly possessions stuffed rather hazardously into the small blue and white police car that Strange had borrowed. Awkwardly finding that his friend had more boxes than he had bargained for, Strange had to ask Morse to walk to his place, and gave him an address and directions. As the engine revved, Morse wrapped his scarf tighter, gave once last glance back up at his old flat, then walked off into the slowing snow. He arrived at Strange's place just a few minutes later, it not being too much of a walk away. Turning the corner onto his street Morse saw the car pulled up in the kerb, and Strange making hurried trips between it and the open door of his maisonette. After helping get the last of the boxes, and table, inside and stacked against a wall, Strange sat down in the kitchen.

          "Cuppa, Morse?"

          "No, thank you." Morse declined. "I think I'll grab a book then get ready for tomorrow, if it's all the same, I've got to be in court early."

          "The strangler?"

          "Yes," Morse said tentatively, "but I'm still not completely convinced it's him. The evidence is a bit…wooly."

          "From what the Inspector was saying, it was this guy that gave you that shiner, wasn't it?"

Morse nodded awkwardly, subconsciously touching his cheekbone where the red mark remained. When Strange turned his back for the whistling kettle, Morse quickly grabbed the copy of Anna Karenina he'd packed away earlier, and his work clothing suitcase, before heading upstairs. It was only when he got to the top landing that he realised he had no idea where he was going.

          "Second door on the right, matey." Strange appeared on the stairs behind him, mug of tea in hand.

After Morse put his suitcase down on the bed, Strange left silently, the steaming mug of tea the only sign he'd been there. Morse smiled at the gesture, and as he reclined in the unfamiliar bed a short while later, a story in Cyrillic dancing before his eyes, he was glad of it. When he went to return the mug later, too much later for his need to be up early, the place was in darkness, rhythmic snoring coming from Strange's bedroom, and it took him a while to stumble through the unfamiliar clutter to the kitchen. Returning, he fell asleep easier than he would have thought between the thicker-than-he-was-used-to sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not super case related, but there'll be more on that tomorrow


	6. Monday 19th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&index=11&t=0s)

* * *

The next morning, Morse was initially confused about his new surroundings, but quickly remembered where he was when Strange stuck his head around the door, hair all over the place and pyjama clad.

          "I thought you wanted to be in early, matey?"

          "Not wanted to be, have to be." Morse replied, hauling himself upright with a sinking feeling. "What time is it now?"

          "Only about half past eight-"

Morse's eyes went wide, then he jumped up from the bed and ran to his suitcase.

          "What's the matter, matey?"

          "I've got to be in court at nine!"

* * *

          "The court will come to order." The Right Honourable Judge Fawce waited for silence, and shivered a little.

The Trial for Murder, and a separate charge of assault, of Mr Henry Crantree was being held in court four, one of the chillier rooms in the Oxford Crown Court. The old Victorian building hadn't quite made it into the twentieth century yet, and the old radiators gurgled and gulped as they tried to heat up the high-ceilinged courtroom. They weren't doing their jobs very well: where a little water normally leaked out of the bleeding-valves near the floor, icicles hung with a dainty danger, biting at straying ankles. Morse shivered as he sat listening to the trial, and his evidence did not take very long to deliver. Thursday, who was expected to be called up, was not, but this was no great problem, as he had nothing of any bearing to say, as it meant everyone would get to go home sooner. Judge Fawce, though being thorough, was not wasting any time on this case; finally, the time for the verdict came.

          "The Judge will now receive the verdict." the orderly called, and there was a loud rustling as the meagre audience collected their coats and scarves around them, as though in anticipation. "Have the jury reached their conclusion?"

There was a pause whilst the chairman of the jury looked up and down the line before the response was given. "We have." he said, nervously. "Er…we find the, um…suspect…guilty." He sat down again, and stared at the opposite wall blankly.

          "Thank you." Fawce said. "I will now pass the sentence."

His Honour looked around the room, his eyes flicking over the court reporter, the witnesses, the police officers sitting in the front row, and the accused, Mr Crantree, sitting off to one side with two officers accompanying. He saw where Crantree's wife sat in the front row of the public gallery, her face tight and expectant under a mop of curly blonde hair. The hand she had on the icy iron railing was white knuckled under her thin glove, and she appeared to be there alone. A couple of rows behind her sat Mr and Mrs Jay-Price, the latter with a slightly triumphant look on her face, and there were a couple of public viewers, a visiting Greats Master from Christ's College, Cambridge among them.

          "As the defendant, Henry Crantree, you have been found guilty on two counts: murder and assault. As punishment for these crimes, you will be taken from this place to a prison, where you will spend the rest of your life. Take him down."

Judge Fawce banged his gavel, and a loud wailing began on the balcony. Morse glanced at Thursday.

          "Go and see her home," Thursday said, "I think there's no-one else to do it."

But to Morse's surprise, there was a taxi waiting for her in the road outside the court, with someone waiting in the back. Mrs Crantree waved Morse away wordlessly, and got in the car quickly before the photographers had time to notice her. Morse turned just to see Thursday coming out, and they got in the Jag, heading back to the station. For a couple of streets, their thoughts were with the prison van, and its melancholy load soon to be progressing towards prison. Morse decided to speak his mind.

          "It doesn't feel right. It's as though they just picked Crantree out of the blue, that first time."

          "Everyone wants someone to blame, Morse," Thursday said, "especially in a situation like this."

          "But what about justice?" Morse said, turning the Jag widely.

          "Justice has ruled that he's no solid alibi, has known hate for the family, and so is guilty!"

          "On the evidence of a handkerchief?!" Morse cried.

          "Eyes on the road." Thursday's voice was business. "It was you who came up with that evidence, and if you've got second thoughts, you should have said them. Anyway, it's not your place to question the judge, Morse. If the gavel's gone down, it's gone down, and the justice has his reasons for the sentence."

          "Life for a crime with so little proof?"

          "That's how it is, Morse." Thursday stared straight ahead. "Justice is served."

          "On a plate, to those who pay for it." Morse was outraged. "I wouldn't be surprised if that judge accepted money to pass that sentence."

          "Watch it, constable." Thursday's voice was hard. "Allegations like that don't do anyone any good."

Morse sat sullenly behind the wheel, as the car continued its progress through the pristine snow towards the station.

* * *

The rest of the day dragged on, everyone feeling the cold slowing them down. Thursday couldn't wait to get home, looking forward to the fish pie that Win had planned for that evening. Morse could wait to get back to Strange's maisonette; the only thing waiting for him there was takeaway, tension, and Tolstoy. Just as the clocks chimed four all across the ancient city, a telephone rang.

          "Cowley CID, Morse."

          "Incident room." said the nameless officer on the other end of the phone. "Just in, suspected suicide on Bedford Street, at number twenty five. Constables already on the scene, but they want a second opinion."

          "I'll be right over." Putting the phone down, he relayed the message to Thursday, and they were soon off.

Bedford Street wasn't a long way from Cowley Station, and the two cars containing support officers reached the street in just a few minutes. Thursday was first out of the car, almost before it had quite stopped moving on the icy road, and was quickly followed by Doctor DeBryn, who had been in the station when the call had come in. Morse rushed after them as fast as the slushy pavements would permit, but was stopped in the door by a warning hand from the doctor.

          "I wouldn't, Morse, if I were you," he said kindly, "it's not the prettiest of sights."

But Morse had already seen enough for his liking; the lifeless body slowly rotating as it hung from the ceiling beam. Gagging, he backed down the corridor quickly and tumbled into the bathroom, expressing his thoughts on the sight into the toilet. DeBryn hovered behind him.

          "Sorry, should have given you a little more warning." Morse was handed a glass of ice cold water. "I'll tell you when it's safer."

When Thursday went to find Morse, he found him talking to a neighbour, who was standing in the frosty front garden wrapped in a grey police blanket. Morse looked like he could do with one himself, still pale from his recent episode. Thursday observed from a distance.

          "And that's how you found it, Mr Frazer?"

          "Exactly." Frazer was staring at a fixed point on the grass, blinking rapidly in short bursts. "I just came to drop round her…her book…" He trailed into silence.

          "What time was that?"

          "About ten to, I'd've thought." Frazer said. "Not long before the chimes, anyway."

          "That's all for now, Mr Frazer." Morse said, putting away his notebook. "We'll have someone escort you home, and come around to take a full statement in the morning."

With a silent nod, Frazer was led away by a young WPC. Morse turned to where Thursday was lurking in the shadows.

          "Came 'round to drop back a book, and found…"

          "Eve Crantree." Thursday filled in. "She was in court earlier, it was her husband who was sentenced. There was a note." He passed it over to Morse, who read it out.

          "'To Jake, I'm sorry it had to be like this, but I couldn't live without him. I hope you'll understand one day, x'. Who's Jake?" Morse looked up at Thursday.

          "Her son, from the photos around the house."

          "We'll have to track him down, as next of kin." Morse said. "I'll get on it, back at the station."

          "Right you are then." Thursday agreed. "You take the Jag back, and I'll clear up here, get a lift with one of the uniforms."

With a nod, Morse departed the scene, the chilly air seeming somehow frostier than usual with another death in the city.

* * *

As the orderlies began to move Mrs Crantree's body onto the stretcher, the policemen started to disperse down the street, back to their cars. As they went, they mingled with the small amount of pedestrians who had gathered in wonder, breaths forming a small cloud above them in the cold. Among them, an average-looking black-haired boy in a too-thin brown jacket, who watched the body borne into the black mortuary van with a mixture of anger and guilt. His father sentenced to life in prison that very day for a murder he had not committed, Jake Crantree was sure, and now his mother dead by her own hand. The previous day he had been at college with a warm, welcoming family waiting close at hand, now the college was his island, with nowhere else to swim to. His hands fisted in his pockets as he overheard the police officer's chatter: she had hung herself, that constable had been sick, him again, oh, and wasn't it a such a _shame_. Yes, Jake thought, shaking as he struggled to keep his composure, it was a shame. Shame that he was now an orphan, that there would be nobody there when he graduated, that this was all because of the- the Judge. Had his father not been sentenced, none of this would have happened, nothing would have changed. As the rest of the murmuring crowd departed eagerly back to their warm houses, Jake turned on his heel, and his shoes started a savage tattoo on the slushy pavement as he steamed towards the Court. Someone was going to hear from him that night, and though it couldn't be his mother or father, it was going to be the person responsible for their current states: one dead, and one might as well be. To his surprise, Oxford Crown Court was alive at night as in the day, the windows a patchwork of light and darkness as Judges worked through the night to defend their clients, sort the rights from the wrongs, and eventually bring justice to all. Well, nearly all.

          "Who was the Judge who was working on the Crantree case earlier?" Jake enquired casually at the front desk, as robed and suited judges filed past.

          "Judge Fawce, in Court Four." was the quick reply. "Why?"

          "Comment for the paper." Jake said, on the fly.

          "Well, he's just left. You might catch him outside though, if you're quick."

Jake gave a hurried thanks, then turned and sped from the Court, looking wildly up and down the street. He was just in time to catch sight of a dark robe flapping around a corner, and followed it into the alleyway, fists ready to bring justice for 'justice'.

* * *

          "See you tomorrow then, Don."

Mr Jenson Hammersmith, co-owner of Hammersmith and Hamish Fine Stationery Co., Oxford, closed the door behind him as he left his small office in Butterwyke Place and pulled his coat tight around him. Nights like this were not the best nights to be walking home, but there wasn't any other option, with his car in the garage. As he made his way home, the snow crunched under his shoes, and the wool of his badly hand-knitted scarf chafed his neck. Looking up and down the dark street, he suddenly realised that it was almost completely empty, save- a young man, college student most likely, in a brown jacket, coming out of the alleyway next to the Crown Court. His eyes flicked from side to side, and his hands were deep in his pockets. Even though he had turned right when he left the alleyway, he suddenly turned around, took a few steps, then retraced them, this time rounding the corner and leaving the street. Mr Hammersmith was about to carry on his way, when something in his mind made his turn around, facing the alleyway. The flicking light drew him closer, until he found himself crossing the road and making his was quickly along the slick pavement towards the alleyway. Entering, he could just see through the sputtering bulb a figure, slumped unmoving against the rough brick wall of the court. Dropping his briefcase in horror, he was soon running from the alleyway, back across the street and to the warm lights of Butterwyke Place. Hammering on the door to his shop, his confused business partner let him in.

          "What is it, Jenson? What's happened?"

          "M-murder!"

* * *

          "The man Mr Hammersmith found in the Court alleyway was Judge Fawce, the one who took the Crantree case." Thursday placed a coffee on Morse's desk. "He's been taken to hospital."

          "Do we have anything else?" Morse asked, thankful for the caffeine.

          "Hammersmith's still in shock, but he might be ready to give us more detail now." Thursday suggested. "Try for a description, but he seems quite… distant, still."

Nodding, Morse made his way from the CID office to the waiting room. Hammersmith was sitting in a corner with a steaming mug in his hands, staring at the floor in front of him. Morse approached quietly but obviously, not wanting to startle the witness.

          "Mr Hammersmith?"

His head snapped up as he heard his name, but his face still looked tired and worried.

          "That man, that I found, how is he?" were his first words, as Morse stopped in front of him.

          "He's in hospital, and will recover." Morse said. "I've come to ask for-"

          "I can't give a statement, not now." Hammersmith said, his eyes dropping back to the floor. "I'm just tot-it's so-"

          "I understand." Morse said as gently as possible. "You'll be followed up for a statement tomorrow, but for now I just need a description of the man you thought you saw."

          "What man?" Hammersmith looked genuinely confused. "The one on the ground, that-"

          "The one you saw leaving the alley just before you went in." Morse prompted. "You did mention him earlier, in passing."

          "Oh, he wasn't really a man, I took him more as a student." Hammersmith said. "Brown jacket, dark hair; black, probably. Average height."

          "His face?"

          "I didn't see it properly, but I think he had quite a large nose," Hammersmith offered, "judging by the shadow."

Suddenly, Morse had an idea. "Would you recognise a photo of him?"

          "I might."

Morse left, and returned a minute later with a photograph in a modest silver frame. "Is this the man you saw?"

          "Yes, yes, that's him." Hammersmith said with conviction.

Leaving him, Morse went quickly to Thursday's office. "I know who it was who beat up Judge Fawce."

          "What do you mean-"

          "Jake Crantree, sir." Morse put down the photo, one that had been taken from Mrs Crantree's property as evidence. "Hammersmith recognised him."

          "Good job, we'll circulate it to the foot patrols and get this Jake Crantree found."

* * *

Once the police were finished with him, and Mr Hammersmith was allowed to return home, he did so jumpily, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead and away from the shadows. His briefcase had been released from the station, and he held it tightly in his hand, ready to use it in defence if necessary. _It's silly_ , he thought, _Oxford's one of the safest places I know. I wasn't even attacked, I just found someone who-_

          "Aaa!" he leapt back as a dark figure came along beside him, but as he passed into the light of a street lamp, he saw a familiar face. "Mrs Saver-Lloyd, the fright you gave me."

The figure had resolved into his neighbour, a jacket-clad older woman, holding a shopping bag. Her hands were in leather gloves cuffed with fur- all faux, of course, on her pension. Her hair was in a bun under the flower-patterned scarf she wore around her head, and he eyes sparkled slightly in the darkness.

          "Why so jumpy, Mr Hammersmith?" she asked kindly.

          "I've just had a run in with the police,- nasty business." They started walking again.

          "Hopefully it wasn't you in the wrong?"

          "God no," Hammersmith replied with a nervous chuckle, "not me at all. I found a chap beaten up in an alleyway."

          "Lord!" Mrs Saver-Lloyd exclaimed. "Was he badly hurt?"

Hammersmith fished for his door key. "Taken to hospital, poor chap. Apparently he'll recover."

          "Oh good."

          "Saw the other chap though, the one who did it."

          "Oh?"

          "Yes, college boy." Hammersmith said with contempt. "Brown jacket, black hair, apparently they identified him from a photograph."

Mrs Saver-Lloyd went quiet for a second, then looked up at her neighbour. "They caught him?"

          "Not yet, but they will." Silence, for a minute, as they reached Mr Hammersmith's door. "Come in for a brew, Mrs Saver-Lloyd? You look frozen to the bone."

          "Thank you, Mr Hammersmith!" she said with a smile. "I'll just drop my shopping off, then I'll be right over."

The two parted, the wintry darkness and a flurry of snow quickly filling the gap between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooaaah we're half way there - how many of you spotted colin dexter?


	7. Tuesday 20th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2KUTa6P6lM&index=8&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&t=0s)

* * *

The next morning, Morse's main job was to track down Jake Crantree. He was going to start his process at any reported sightings, but seeing as most of Oxford was inside keeping warm, there weren't any. Next, he moved onto the photos taken from Mrs Crantree's house. In some of them, he was wearing a striped scarf, the colours of which Morse was quickly able to link to St. Hugh's College. Arriving there shortly afterwards, he soon met the porter and asked about Jake's whereabouts, finding that he was on the fifth staircase, in room three. The college was beautiful, even though covered in snow, the normally neat planting simply skeletal and crystallised. When he reached Jake's landing, he approached to room carefully, then knocked softly on the door. There was a shuffling from within, then the door was opened by a boy with black hair, who Morse instantly recognised from the photo.

          "Jake Crantree?" he asked, holding up his warrant card. "DC Morse, Oxford City Police."

          "Yes, come in." The door was opened wide, and Morse stepped into a typical student apartment.

Books were roughly stacked on almost every surface, and the bookshelves were randomly stuffed with Shakespeare and Dickens, Christie and Austen. This student was clearly in the middle of an essay, with a liberal spread of books and papers not only on the desk, but on the bed and floor too. Morse looked up with a small smile.

          "Essay due?"

          "Tomorrow," Jake said, combing his hair off his face roughly, "and I'm only half way through. What with…everything that's happened."

          "My condolences." Morse said. "Well, I won't detain you for long." He took out a picture of Judge Fawce. "Do you recognise this man?"

Jake studied it for a minute, then handed it back. "No."

          "Not even from the court hearing yesterday?"

          "I wasn't there." Jake said defensively. "I was here, writing my essay, for most of the day."

          "So, you went out in the evening?" Jake was silent. "Where did you go last night?"

          "Nowhere."

          "So, not near the Crown Court, to beat up one of the Judges."

Silence fell, and Jake stared insolently back at Morse. "I would never-"

          "Oh, but you did." Morse said with a slightly sardonic smile. "You went to Oxford Crown Court, found Judge Fawce, beat him up, and now he's in hospital, fighting for-"

Suddenly, Jake sprang up from his perch on the desk and darted to the door, ripping it open. As Morse gave chase, Jake thundered down the stairs, and beat Morse to the snowy grounds. He took off towards the road, and Morse followed him, the slush sliding beneath his feet. However, as he passed through the archway and looked around wildly for his quarry, he was just in time to see a brown jacket disappear around the corner. Skidding to a stop, he gave up, and returned defeated to the station. Thursday greeted him just as he reached his desk.

          "Morse," he said, "why the stormy face?"

          "Jake Crantree got away from me at his college." Morse said, sitting down at his desk. "I was talking to him one minute, and chasing after him the next."

          "Bad luck," Thursday said, "I'll put the search back on. If he ran from the college, he won't get far."

Morse looked glum. "Anything else, sir?"

          "You're going to go and see Hammersmith." Thursday said. "Get his full statement, at your leisure. Latest Thursday."

          "Me, Sir?" Morse was surprised, and not particularly pleased.

          "You, Morse. And no funny business, this a clean cut witness statement, alright?"

          "Sir."

          "Here's his file, put the notes in it when you've time." Thursday passed over the manila sheaf. "On your way, now."

* * *

Morse headed home to Strange's place, where he dumped the file on his borrowed bed before pouring himself a thin glass of whiskey. Sitting alone for a while, taking a sip every few crossword clues, he passed the time miserably. He should have known that Jake Crantree would run, and now their possible abuser was on the loose, who knows how desperate. As he sat, the heated turned off for the sake of Strange's pocket, snow began to fall outside, forming a drift at the bottom of the window opposite Morse's room. Watching it, he was hardly aware of the door opening downstairs, and almost spilled his drink over himself when Strange appeared at the top of the stairs, blocking his line of sight to the snowy view.

          "Blimey, matey, you frozen solid?" the constable dropped a coin into the meter. "Morse?"

          "Sorry, miles away." He flashed something of a smile, which was more like a twitch.

          "You want help then?"

Momentarily confused, Morse just blinked. Then, he remembered. "My new flat! Please, if you wouldn't mind."

          "No trouble, matey." Strange said. "I've got the car downstairs again for the run over. Started snowing something bad a minute ago, though."

          "Let's load up the car between the snowflakes," Morse said, packing his few scattered belongings back into their boxes, "and when it holds off for a while we'll get going."

Strange nodded in agreement. "Shouldn't take too long." He was right, running Morse's few boxes down to the car only took twenty minutes. However, just as they had almost finished, snow started coming down heavily, and they retreated inside. Morse half turned to Strange.

          "Thanks for the help moving, and…" he gestured around the landing, "…everything."

          "That's alright," was the reply, along with a wide smile, "know you'd do the same for me anytime."

          "Of course."

They both stood in silence for a minute, both unsure of what else to say. It was Morse who broke the hush.

          "Snow's stopped."

          "Only a squall, then."

They both left the maisonette, Strange walking this time as Morse actually knew where he was going, and tried to give directions as best he could. They both coordinated at the drab building a few minutes later, Morse wondering what drew him to it in the first place. Then he remembered it wasn't the looks, but his bank balance which had dragged him here. A constable's pay just wasn't cutting the luxury of a room with a view. Between the two of them Morse's stuff was inside the new flat quick enough, after Strange had been introduced to the landlady, who had also been assured that Morse was not under arrest, but another policeman. Strange didn't stay for too long afterwards, saying that he was meeting someone special that night, so Morse was left to unpack by himself, only Mozart for company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda short again, sorry


	8. Wednesday 21st

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywKtobddrn4&index=7&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&t=0s)

* * *

It wasn't until the next day that Morse found time to see Hammersmith, he was so busy. What with the rest of the investigation and trying to move flats, he didn't have a lot of spare time, but in a free couple of hours on Wednesday afternoon, Morse dutifully made his way to Mr Hammersmith's listed address, taking the slim file tucked under his arm for reference. As it wasn't too far from his new flat, and the day was pleasant enough, though bitterly cold, he walked. Reaching the address, it was a small detached house, clean but not manicured front garden covered in a blanket of snow, with an unsalted but apparently concrete path to the green front door. Finding a doorbell, he rung and waited, looking back at his single set of tracks in the pristine snow. A couple of minutes passed with no reply, so Morse rung again, checking the address in the file nervously. This was right; 20 Hathaway Gardens. Stepping back to look up at the front of the house, he saw that there were two upstairs windows open, so the witness was either in and not answering, or had bad security habits. Seeing a home telephone number on the file Morse called it from a phone box a few paces from the front gate, but it rang out. Returning to the house, he called up at the open windows.

          "Mr Hammersmith, it's the police. I just want to ask you a couple of questions."

No answer.

          "Mr Hammersmith?"

Morse was done with waiting. He was about to go back to his flat and try again later, when he saw the drive to the left of the house. This place had to have a back garden, so he jumped over the low side wall and crunched up the snowy drive. It turned out there was a cul-de-sac down there, with two bungalows visible at the end, and a wide gate on the right which presumably led to the elusive Mr Hammersmith's back garden. Morse called his name again.

          "Mr Hammersmith? It's the police, open up please."

No answer. Jumping quickly, Morse got a fleeting glimpse over the gate of a wide blanket of white which probably concealed patio and a small grass area. On the patio was set out a workbench with a saw and a half-cut piece of wood, both frosted and dusted with powder snow. Large French doors at the back of the property were wide open, despite the cold, and he could now hear out-of-chart rock music blaring from a radio somewhere inside. That must have been why he didn't hear the hails. Funny, he hadn't seemed like the type.

          "Mr Hammersmith!"

The occupant must have heard something that time. Morse knew that if he went back to the station tomorrow without a statement Thursday would have his guts, so he took the matter into his own hands. At the unfortunate expense of a ripped trouser leg, Morse climbed the garden wall and dropped into the crisp, unblemished snow other side.

          "Mr Hammersmith?"

Now inside the garden, Morse's voice echoed around the four walls dully. He took a few steps over to the house, and saw a curtain twitch in the house next door. Seeing an eye in the small gap, he got his warrant card out of his inside pocket with clumsily cold fingers and pointed to it, calling 'Police'; the curtain twitched again, and the eye disappeared. Brushing the incident aside as nosy neighbours, he made his way into the house, over the small snow drift that had accumulated, calling 'Mr Hammersmith?' as he looked around. The downstairs was deserted, washing-up mouldering in the kitchen and magazines strewn around the living room. As he passed the front door, his foot on the bottom stair, he heard a key grate in the lock. Not wanting Hammersmith to open his door to a policeman, Morse opened it for him. To Morse's surprise it wasn't Mr Hammersmith; it was a woman. Wearing a floral-patterned dress under a thick winter coat, and a concerned expression, she pushed her way in, shopping bags barging past him. He closed the door behind her, dazed.

          "And you are?"

Unexpectedly, the question came from the woman. "DC Morse, City Police." He held up his warrant card. "I might ask you the same question, Miss…"

          "Mrs. Saver-Lloyd. I'm Jenson- Mr Hammersmith's- neighbour. He leaves a spare key with me." she said, putting the key in her pocket.

          "Was it you I saw at the window?" Morse asked.

          "Yes." Mrs Saver-Lloyd replied. "When I saw someone climb over the wall, I thought-"

          "Sorry for alarming you, Mrs Saver-Lloyd." he said. "Is that why you came in?"

          "Yes."

          "Have you seen Mr Hammersmith recently?" He asked, starting upstairs.

          "Not since last Thursday, he'd lost his keys shopping and asked if I had the spare." Mrs Saver-Lloyd stayed in the hall.

          "You gave it to him?" Morse called, peering into the first room; a bathroom, taps dripping and mould in one corner.

          "Of course!"

          "What time was that?" he asked, looking into what appeared to be the spare room, boxes piled in one corner and a small, unmade bedframe in the other.

          "Around…oh, three-ish? In the afternoon, of course. He was just back from the shops."

          "And you haven't seen or heard from him since?" Morse said, trying the handle of the next room.

It was unexpectedly locked.

          "Not except that awful racket he's got on all hours of the day and night. Even on a Sunday, mark you. A Sunday!"

After a few unsuccessful attempts at opening the door, Morse went to the top of the stairs. "Did he leave any other keys with you? One for an internal door, maybe?"

          "Yes, he gave me a whole ring, I'll go and get it if you like."

          "Please."

Mrs Saver-Lloyd went out as Morse went back to the door, and he heard the door close behind her. Whilst she was gone, he tried the door a few more times, and when she was gone for five minutes, he thought she'd lost them. Putting his shoulder to the door, it banged open on the second push, and Morse reeled back and the foul smell which hit him. Coat over mouth and nose, peering through the shut-curtained gloom, he could just see the form of a man lying on the bed in an awkward position, his head pillowed by a mess of blood-stained sheets. His skin was grey and thin-looking, and his muscles were stiff. He was definitely dead. Even as Morse felt his necrophobia kicking in, he smelt something else, over the putrid scent of death. It was one he had come to know well: smoke. Turning around, Morse saw that it was billowing through the corridor, and an orange glow was already detectable through the haze. Eyes watering, Morse dropped the coat from his face and felt his way out of the room, but he realised that in his haste he didn't know where the stairs were. Coughing in the smoke, and feeling the heat intensifying, blind panic set in, and in a frenzy Morse ran down the corridor to the very end, where there thankfully was a window. No time to open it, Morse jumped straight through, sharp edges catching at his clothing. Luckily it was only the second floor, and the drop wasn't too far. For Morse's smoked senses, though, it was far enough. Even as he hit the unkempt, snow-covered flower bed, he felt he should get up, but the sky was turning the colour of the shadowy earth it was swapping places with. Before he knew it, the world was black.

* * *

It was around five o'clock, and Thursday was just reaching for his pipe, when Strange burst into his office, eyes wide.

          "It's Morse, sir. He's just been taken to hospital."

Thursday looked bewilderedly at Strange, his mind racing. It was a Wednesday, wasn't it? Morse's afternoon off. What had happened to take him to hospital?

          "Sir?"

          "Get the car." Thursday said, mechanically putting on his coat and hat.

          "Ready and waiting, sir."

A couple of minutes later they were racing towards the hospital, a determined Thursday at the wheel, the Jag's engine roaring through the confined streets. Parking somewhat illegally, Thursday sprang out into the snow and left Strange to deal with it, making a beeline for accident and emergency.

          "DI Thursday, City Police." he panted, staring wildly at the nurse behind the front desk and showing his warrant card. "Where's DC Morse?"

          "Here's his doctor, you can ask him," the nurse said, pointing to a greying man who had just entered the reception, "Doctor Green."

Forgetting the thank you, Thursday hurried to the Doctor.

          "Doctor Green, DC Morse's doctor?"

          "Yes, and who might you be?" was the slightly haughty reply.

Thursday showed his warrant card again. The doctor chuckled, and turned back the way he had come.

          "This way." he said, nodding down the corridor. "So, this is what these are meant to look like. The last one I saw was burnt almost to a cinder."

The remark sent a chill through Thursday, but he pressed on with the questions.

          "What happened?"

          "I can't tell you exactly what happened, I'm afraid." Green said. "Nobody will be able to, until he wakes up."

That couldn't be a good sign.

          "Where is he?"

          "We're on our way. Visiting hours are strictly over, but…as you're police, I can let you see him for a few minutes."

The Doctor continued to lead Thursday into a maze of starkly bare, whitewashed corridors, echoing the frozen landscape outside, until he pushed open a swing door. There, lying on the bed by the window that Doctor Green indicated, was a young, thin form, eyes closed and chest rising and falling regularly. Looking to the bedside chair, Thursday would know that car coat anywhere, strangely smoke-blackened though the beige fabric was.

          "Morse…" the pair stopped by the end of the bed, and Doctor Green picked up the constable's chart, Thursday's eyes fixed on Morse's face.

He'd been given a wash and brush up by the hospital staff as some point, but a few traces of smoke remained around his hairline. Suit gone, he was dressed in a plain hospital gown, tucked under crisp white sheets, but he was too…regimented, by Thursday's memory. When Morse slept he sprawled, arms and legs going every which way. To see him in straight lines like this wasn't natural.

          "He's stable, and recovering well. I’ll be able to give him any pain medication he needs when he wakes up."

          "Recovering…from what?"

          "Smoke inhalation, minor cuts and scrapes and a slight concussion. Nothing particularly serious, though he might have a bit of memory loss in the hours after he wakes."

Moving the coat, Thursday sat down in the chair and watched the prone form of his bagman.

          "You don't know exactly what happened?"

          "Except that he was taken from the frozen flowerbed outside a large house fire, nothing."

Silence fell, broken only by the faint ringing of a telephone in the background and the ever-present clicking of nurse's heels.

          "He won't wake up this side of morning, Inspector," said Doctor Green, "best to get some sleep."

Without waiting for an answer, the Doctor replaced the chart, nodded, and walked away. Thursday noticed that Green tactfully hadn't suggested the he leave, just that he should get some sleep. Not that he would have left, even if he'd been told to; Morse might be disorientated when he woke up, and a friendly face was always useful. First, though, he took a short trip to the public telephone in the corridor outside, calling Win to let her know what had happened, and not to wait up for him. There was a moment of silence after he finished speaking.

          "Bring Morse home with you, won't you Fred?" Win said, her voice caring, "He can't go back to his freezing flat all by himself, after this."

          "Of course, love." Fred replied. "I'll give you warning, maybe you could heat up something for him."

He was sure that if he returned home without Morse, his sandwiches would be suspended for weeks, so he hung up and returned to the ward, grabbing a newspaper on his way in. Settling himself into the chair, he started at the first word on the front page, determined to make this paper last. And so the vigil began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: these were actually the first two scenes i wrote of this fic


	9. Thursday 22nd

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBjq0TeCz3E&index=6&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&t=0s)

* * *

If Doctor Green had been wrong about Morse not waking up in the night, Thursday didn't know it. He had fallen asleep about the middle of the paper, and near the middle of the night, the printed sheets quickly slipping to the floor with a quiet rustle, his head awkwardly settled between his shoulder and the wall. In fact the Doctor had been incorrect; Morse had woken briefly around one in the morning, just long enough for the duty nurse to assess his condition, and conclude that he didn't need pain killers, only some sleeping pills. As he drifted back off under three blankets, the Nurse also placed one over Thursday's sleeping form, and folded the newspaper neatly on the side table, absent-mindedly crossword side out. When Morse awoke properly around half way through the next morning, the view that greeted him was a pleasantly surprising one. Propped up on several pillows, his eyes panned round the ward; starting at his snoring superior in the chair of his left, he took in the other patients who were already awake, the sunlight streaming in through the large windows, illuminating the golden flecks of floating dust, the duty nurse serving someone a glass of water, and finally the bedside table on his right, where a roughly folded newspaper sat. The outward-folded crossword looked enticing, but his pounding head told him that it wouldn't be a good idea to try and focus on the tiny squares just now. Maybe he could try for the larger headlines though, as a warm up. With a small sigh, he started to reach over to the table, but the crinkly hospital sheets alerted the duty nurse to his consciousness, and she bustled over.

          "Let me get that for you, dear." she said, tucking him back in and handing him the paper. "And how are we feeling this morning?"

          "I've felt better," Morse said, "but not too bad. A bit headachy." he rubbed his eyes, then remembered: or rather, didn't. "What happened?"

          "That's for you to tell us," Doctor Green had appeared at the end of Morse's bed, called over by the nurse, "all I've been told is that you were lying unconscious in a flowerbed outside a house fire when the firemen arrived, and were bought here."

Suddenly, there was a deep sigh from Thursday, and he sat up properly, rubbing his sleep-stiff neck. Spotting Morse sitting up and coherent, he moved the chair closer to the bed, rubbing back his wayward hair from his face, as the duty nurse drifted off to the other patients.

          "Morse, glad to see you awake, did you give me a fright." he said, with genuine feeling in his voice. "How are you?"

          "Fine, just perfect." Morse replied, a trifle sarcastically, rubbing his head.

When Thursday looked more worried, Morse revised his answer. "I'm actually all right, sir, considering."

          "Considering what?" Thursday asked, "Nobody knows what happened. I just get a phone call saying you're in hospital, and when I arrive it looks like you've been rolling in ash."

          "That's not far from what happened, I think." Morse said, looking between the Doctor and the Inspector. "That house I was at was Jenson Hammersmith's, I was there to get his statement like you asked. I really don't remember much, but the jump is pretty clear-"

          "The jump?" Thursday's eyes were wide as he realised. "You jumped from the second story window into that flower bed?"

          "There was smoke everywhere, and I didn’t know the layout, and-" Morse suddenly remembered details. "-the fire was on the stairs."

Thursday looked at his bagman with care in his eyes, and an ache in his heart. The lad didn't deserve this, any of this. He'd just gone ‘round there for a 'clean cut witness statement’, and instead he almost been burnt alive.

          "Well that would explain the slight concussion." Doctor Green came forward and checked Morse's pupils. "You should have returned to normal by midday."

          "Does that mean I'll be able to leave this afternoon?" Morse asked hopefully, already pushing back the starched sheets.

          "Unfortunately, no." Green said with a smile. "You'll be allowed out tomorrow morning at the earliest." With that he left, rehanging the chart with a clatter and then moving to his next patient across the ward.

          "Anything else you can tell me?" Thursday said, "Don’t push it though." Morse's eyes screwed up as he struggled to piece the thoughts together. "Start from the beginning." Thursday said softly. "Why were you there?"

          "I was busy moving into my flat most of the morning, but I found time to go and get the statement in the afternoon." Morse said, staring at the bedcovers. "I walked to his place, and but when I knocked he wasn't in, so I climbed over the back wall and went inside. His neighbour, a Mrs…I've forgotten her name, came in with a spare key and waited downstairs whilst I looked around upstairs. Then there was a locked door, and she went to go and get the key. Anyway, she was taking a while, so I shouldered the door down, and there was-" Morse drew a sudden breath. "-Hammersmith is dead."

          "What?" Thursday leaned forward, incredulous. "How do you mean, dead?"

          "I remember he was lying on the bed, b-blood on the pillow, and…a minute later I smelled smoke. When I went onto the landing…there was fire, on the stairs. I panicked, and saw the only exit as the window at the end of the corridor. You know the rest." Morse finished with a small, sarcastic smile.

Silence fell between them, until Thursday spoke. "I'll see what the fire crew pulled out, try and work out what happened." he said, gathering up his coat. "Be back later to check up on you. Anything you want me to bring?"

          "The case files from the bank business?" Morse asked hopefully.

Thursday considered for a moment, before a quick "I'll see what I can do" before he swept from the ward. After his quick encounter with Thursday, Morse spent the rest of the morning taking a forced rest, as he wasn't allowed to leave the bed. His usual crossword time of half an hour was increased to two hours due to his slow processing, but when he finally filled in three down with a flourish, the same feeling of satisfaction came. Around midday, he was served a hospital lunch of something resembling a baked potato, and then tried to settle down to a trashy novel that had been left on his bedside table. However, he was hardly a chapter in when Thursday reappeared, a Richardson's plastic bag in hand. Glad to be torn away from the badly-written prose, he hailed Thursday when he was still half way down the ward.

          "Sir, I didn't expect to see you here again so soon."

          "Well, I've not been that busy." he took out two brown paper packages, and handed one to Morse. "Sandwiches from my Win. She said you needed something better than hospital food, after what happened to you. Not sure what's in them, though."

          "Ham and Tomato." Morse said, half way through opening his package. "It is a Thursday after all."

Both ate their sandwiches for a while, before Thursday bought up the plastic bag again and emptied it onto the bed. Morse was happy to see what it contained.

          "The papers on the bank," Thursday clarified, "and a list of items retrieved from the house fire, which are all at the station now."

This was more than Morse had bargained for, but he was happy with it, as it made for an interesting afternoon. After Thursday had left to get back to the station, Morse settled back onto the pillows, and opened the first folder. Once his eyes had got used to the small text, he discovered that it was the police report of what had happened, with some witness transcripts attached. They made for interesting reading. _The fire was first phoned in by the neighbour, Mrs Saver-Lloyd,_ the police report read, _who had been cooking downstairs when she first smelt smoke. Thinking it was her cooking, it was a couple of minutes before she investigated the source, by which time the fire was across most of the ground floor of the neighbouring house. She called the fire brigade from the phone box outside her house, and it was then that she saw someone jump out of an upstairs window, and also asked for an ambulance._ The report stopped there, and Morse flicked to the other notes. As the incident was so recent, most of the pages were literally notes, scribbles taken down by someone on a telephone. A transcript of the phone call from the hospital: _Cowley Police Station? Yes. One of yours, a Detective Constable Morse, has just come in from a house fire. Oh- oh, thanks. I'll get the inspector over there right away..._ they continued in a similar vein, and Morse skipped to the list of retrieved items. Nothing of interest lay there, except a rather out-of-place Webley revolver. What if that was the type of gun that was responsible for leaving Mr Hammersmith that way on the bed? That would be on a list of registered owners, and if Jake Crantree's name was on there, well…it wouldn't be a very merry Christmas for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "the more i hear about morse the more i want to sit him down and give him a blanket and some tea maybe" ~ @macaronimood (Tumblr), 2018


	10. Friday 23rd

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCJxkwsewOU&t=0s&list=PL2qifpWlEmD7M5Cdh7zqrLzjeiLKmmxUe&index=36)

* * *

The next morning, after a last check up by Doctor Green, Morse was discharged from the hospital. Thursday was doubtful, remembering the leap of faith, but Morse proved he was fit when he insisted on driving them back to the station in the ice-box-like Jag, and they arrived without a hitch.

          "Remember, light duties only." Thursday said, knowing that Morse was hardly likely to be listening.

          "Have you found Jake Crantree again yet?" Morse asked, seating himself behind his typewriter.

          "No, and I don't think we're likely to be seeing any more of him." Thursday said. "He's not been back to college, and they're threatening to kick him out. Apparently there have been previous incidents which are going against him."

          "He's got a criminal record?" Morse asked, surprised.

          "Not to speak of, a few warnings over vandalism but nothing serious." Thursday replied.

Morse worked on petty crime reports for a while, Thursday popping in and out of the office to talk to the returning patrols, who had been doing door-to-doors looking for Crantree, even in the snow flurries. Around midday, they both picked up their coats, scarves, and anything else warm they could find, and headed to the pub, Morse still thinking over the case details, his head spinning. When they had sat down, and Morse's round was in, Thursday opened his sandwiches.

          "Corned beef." Morse said, sipping his beer.

          "And the same to you." Thursday said through a mouthful of canned meat and bread.

          "So, what are your thoughts on the Jake Crantree case, sir?" Morse asked.

          "My thoughts are that we should drop it."

Morse turned sharply to his superior. "But sir, what-"

          "It's two days until Christmas, Morse," Thursday replied, "not enough time to do anything. Our only witness is dead, his statement hasn't bought any results-"

          "It's clearly Jake Crantree!" Morse interjected, outraged. "From his performance at St Hugh's, he can't really be innocent. I'm sure that when we find him, he'll-"

          "But will we find him?" Thursday asked rhetorically, "I doubt it. He's probably long gone. You said he was keen on his studies when you were there, but he hasn't been in at all recently!"

Morse was stumped. It wasn't like Thursday to drop a case, not like this. "But sir, what if-"

          "We're dropping it." Thursday said. "You've been injured what, three times, in the course of investigations?"

          "One of them was an accident." Morse reasoned.

          "And one of them was an arson, which almost killed you!" Thursday was staring his bagman down. "I want you alive for Christmas, Morse, and if that means keeping you off cases for a while, then so be it." The Inspector paused. "I'm busy with Christmas; Win's got so many people coming down, and then there's the house to be decorated, the list goes on." Morse sat in sullen silence. "I'm surprised you're not asking for Christmas leave, Morse, see your sister."

          "She's gone away with…with Gwen." Morse said, a trifle heavily.

Thursday scrunched up the sandwich paper, putting it in his pocket, and drained his pint. "Still, let's start Christmas leave early then." Morse remained sitting, staring at his still mostly full glass. "Morse?"

          "I can't go galivanting off whilst there's a crime to be solved." Morse said, with feeling.

          "But really, Morse,-"

          "I can't just let an arsonist walk free," Morse said, "that's not justice!"

          "Well if you think you can solve it alone, go ahead." Thursday said huffily. "I've enough on my plate, without a dead end case."

          "I don't think I can, I know I can," Morse said, his streak of arrogance showing through, "and I'll tell you as soon as I've caught them."

With that, he put his glass down on the table with a slight bang and stood up, his chair scraping back. Thursday watched as he stalked from the table and out of the pub, disappearing with a snowy gust into the white wilderness outside.

* * *

When Morse left the pub, he really had no idea where he was going. He walked the snowy streets for a while , marvelling not for the first time at Oxford in the snow, before his wandering footsteps bought him to the main door of the hospital. Maybe it was his brain telling him that he really shouldn't have left so early after the fire incident, or maybe it was an underlying investigative desire to see Mr Hammersmith's skeleton which had been pulled from the fire. Whatever the reasoning, he made his way through the accident and emergency, packed with car accidents, broken bones, cut and scrapes, and made his way down to the morgue, where he hoped DeBryn would be around so he wouldn't have to spend too much time in the death-filled cellar. Entering the cold room, he was disappointed to see it empty of DeBryn, but relieved to see it empty of any corpses. He took the few steps into the centre of the space, and looked around with trepidation.

          "Morse!" The named jumped a foot in the air as he spun around, looking for the source of the call, but quickly realised it was DeBryn himself, standing in the doorway with his coat snow-dusted and his black bag in his hand. "I don't remember inviting you in?"

          "Do I need an invitation?" Morse said, a little bitterly, "Sorry, Doctor, I'm just a bit annoyed."

          "I can tell." DeBryn placed his bag down on the central gurney, and started to take his coat off. "Cup of tea?"

Morse sighed, then nodded. "Please." He followed the pathologist through to the small office, where a small flash was divided between two chipped mugs.

          "So, Morse," DeBryn said, handing the young DC a mug, "what's on your mind?"

          "Thursday wants to drop the case, the one where the Judge got beaten up." Morse said. "I don't think we should."

DeBryn thought for a moment. "I don't know both sides of the argument, but-"

          "Justice needs to be served, that should be enough of an argument for anyone!" Morse said with conviction, waving his mug half-heartedly. "So, I'm investigating it on my own." He finished, and took a sip of tea.

          "Thursday's not-"

          "-helping, no. He's too busy with Christmas."

          "What leads are you following?" DeBryn asked good-naturedly.

          "That a Webley revolver was pulled from the fire, and from my first glance Hammersmith was shot in the head, or had some other grievous head injury."

          "Well, you're right there." DeBryn said, and to Morse's surprise, span his chair to face the filing cabinet.

Opening the top drawer, he rifled through until he found what he was apparently looking for, then handed it to Morse. Opening it, the DC saw that it was the autopsy report on the skeleton, which had apparently been released pretty quickly to the next of kin. _A charred skeleton was found in one of the upstairs rooms, male, about forty-five years of age. Killed by a single bullet entering through the right orbital socket and exiting through the occipital bone. Death would have been instantaneous. Bullet recovered from scene: likely fired by a Webley revolver or similar._ The last typed line alone made Morse look up, his mind racing. He sprang from his chair.

          "Thank you, Doctor." he said, and ran from the room, file clutched in his hand.

So Mr Hammersmith had been killed by the Webley - the question now was who had pulled the trigger. The revolver couldn't have been fingerprinted by now, but there was one other place he could look: the Owner's Register. As soon as he reached the station he ran to records, and hurried the desk sergeant to get the file. Not bothering to go back to his desk, he flicked through it where he stood, finally coming to the Webley list. Mr B Vale, Mr J Hurst, Mr C Morin- Mr H Saver-Lloyd. The…neighbour? Or was it a coincidence. There were a couple of Saver-Lloyds in Oxford, Morse knew, so he 'borrowed' the file from the records room and made his way to the main police files. Surprisingly, her file concurred: she had inherited the revolver, and it's licence, from her husband when he died, and so could have used it to murder Mr Hammersmith. However, there was one other detail on her file which gave Morse another perspective; her next of kin was listed as Eve Crantree, who was apparently her sister. Having changed names when she married, this hadn't been apparent, but now that she was dead, that left Mrs Saver-Lloyd's next of kin as her nephew,-

          "Jake Crantree." he breathed, looking up.

Everything made sense now. Jake Crantree, knowing that his aunt owned the pistol, had gone to her house, and shot Hammersmith to prevent him telling anything else. When Morse had come investigating, he had set the fire, to destroy the evidence and reporter in one.  Now all he needed was to find out where Jake was hiding, and the first person to ask would be his aunt. Grabbing his coat, he ran to the motor pool and took out the Jag, heading over to Hathaway Gardens to see what Mrs Saver-Lloyd had to say.

* * *

Thursday returned from lunch feeling both lighter for having the case off his shoulders, but heavier for disappointing Morse the way he had. The young DC had said he was going to investigate on his own, and Thursday had no doubt that he would. Unfortunately, this made the new free time that Thursday had feel filled with guilt, that he would be getting it easy whilst Morse struggled under twice the workload. Hopefully, Morse would realise his folly before Christmas, and would be free to-

          "Inspector Thursday?"

He jerked out of his reverie to see a young, cold-looking PC looking at him, a file in his hand.

          "What is it?"

          "Finger print results returned on that revolver from the fire, sir."

          "Thank you, constable." Thursday said, and took the file; opening it, he flicked to the conclusion. Match: Mrs J Saver-Lloyd. "Where's Morse?" he asked the hovering constable.

          "Not at his desk, sir." was the reply. "I think I saw the 169 Jaguar leaving a few minutes ago though."

Thanking him, Thursday made his way to the front desk, and asked where Morse had said his destination was.

          "18 Hathaway Gardens, sir." was the reply. "The reason stated is to question the occupant about her nephew Jake Crantree's whereabouts."

          "Mrs Saver-Lloyd's address." Thursday breathed.

Turning quickly back to his office, the first person he saw was the very person he wanted to see. "Constable Strange, what are you doing here?"

          "Dropping off some papers, sir."

          "Well, I need you to come with me. Morse might be in danger."

Strange's argument died on his lips, and he put down the folder he was carrying. As they drove through the streets in Strange's borrowed blue police car, Thursday explained.

          "Morse has gone to this Saver-Lloyd's place to question her about Jake Crantree's whereabouts, because he thinks that this Crantree kid killed Hammersmith and set the fire. What he doesn't know is that it was actually Saver-Lloyd who killed Hammersmith and set the fire, and that he could be walking into a trap. She's already tried to kill him once."

Strange could only grimace, and drive a little faster.

* * *

When Morse knocked on Mrs Saver-Lloyd's door, he was met by a look of surprise by the woman who opened it.

          "Officer? How can I help?" she greeted him.

          "Mrs Jennifer Saver-Lloyd?" he asked, his talking-to-the-public smile on his face.

          "Yes." she replied, a little slowly. "Please, do come in. It's bitter cold outside."

Taking a few hesitant steps inside, Morse took in the garishly floral wallpaper and multitude of animal figurines, all frozen in different 'playful' positions, in one glance. Further inspection revealed that there were yet more frolicking animals hidden not too deeply in the wallpaper pattern, and a slightly overwhelmed and disgusted Morse turned back to his interviewee.

          "I'm here about your nephew, Jake Crantree." He opened. "When did you hear from him last?"

          "A few days ago, he was talking to me about the trial one afternoon." she replied. "His father was in court recently, you know."

          "Yes." Morse replied. "Do you know anywhere he could be?"

          "He studies English at St. Hugh's," Mrs Saver-Lloyd volunteered, "but other than that it would just be his parents' house. Though, not after the recent tragedy, I wouldn't think."

          "Nowhere else?"

          "No."

Feeling that line of questioning to be nearing its end, Morse changed tack. "Mrs Saver-Lloyd, do you happen to own a firearm at all?"

          "No."

The reply came too quickly for Morse's instincts to let it pass. Eyebrows raised in disbelief, he asked the question again.

          "Do you have a gun, Mrs Saver-Lloyd?" He stared her down. "A Webley revolver, perhaps?"

She stared at her feet, then looked up defiantly. "I don't use it," she said, making Morse's eyebrows rise even further, "I inherited it from my husband when he died."

          "Where is it, may I ask?"

          "In the lock box, upstairs. I've got the licence there too," she added hurriedly, "it's all legal."

          "Come on," Morse said, aware that his theory stood or fell on seeing the weapon, "let's see it then."

He was led upstairs, where Mrs Saver-Lloyd went into her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Pulling out a small, grey lock box with a mildly rusty padlock from the bottom of the wardrobe, there was the sound of a car pulling up outside, and footsteps on the path. She got the key from the bedside table and bent over the box, trying to fit the key into the lock. A voice echoed up the staircase from someone outside the door.

          "Morse? You in there? Open up!"

Morse started towards the bedroom door. "I should-"

          "No!" Mrs Saver-Lloyd suddenly slammed the door shut and leant against it, desperately balancing the box, which clearly contained something heavy, and key in her hand. "I need to prove this, I'm innocent!"

          "Innocent of what?" Morse asked, suddenly aware he was in danger, "I haven't accused you of anything yet!"

          "I know what you think, I know what you think you know!"

There was the crash of the door being shouldered open downstairs, and then heavy footsteps coming upwards. "Morse!"

          "Sir, I'm here!" Morse replied, his voice strangely higher than usual.

          "Mrs Saver-Lloyd? This is Detective Inspector Thursday, Oxford City Police." The voice of Morse's superior came from just outside the door. "Let my officer out, and then come out with your hands up."

          "I need him to see!" Saver-Lloyd was fumbling with the old key, in danger of snapping it. "I'm innocent!"

There was suddenly the sound of someone running a couple of steps, just as Mrs Saver-Lloyd finally got the box open. A wide smile of joy on her face as she took out the gun from within it, Morse threw himself down the side of the the bed instinctively just as the door burst open, and Thursday stumbled into the room. Seeing the old woman with the gun, he quickly disarmed her and threw the piece to Strange before looking around.

          "Morse?" His tone was anxious, frantic even. "Morse!"

There was an answering 'Sir' from the side of the bed, and Morse's head appeared. He was rubbing it, but didn't look to be in too much pain. Thursday hurried to his side.

          "Where did she get you? Morse?"

          "The gun's a fake," he replied, pulling himself up, "I'm fine. Instinctively dodged and glanced my head off the side table is all."

Thursday breathed a sigh of relief, and got to his feet again. Meanwhile, Strange had been looking the gun over whilst having Mrs Saver-Lloyd in something of an arm lock.

          "It is a fake, sir." he confirmed. "And not a very good one, either. Nothing more than a toy."

          "It should be it, the real one!" Mrs Saver-Lloyd was pleading. "That's where I left it."

          "Well it's not where we found it." Thursday said. "We found it lying in the ashes of your neighbour's house fire, incidentally with your fingerprints on it. What can you tell us about that?"

          "It's my gun, I've got a right to have my finger prints on it." Saver-Lloyd said defensively.

          "But there were no others," Thursday said, taking a step towards her, "pointing to you having shot Mr Jenson Hammersmith."

There was silence in the room. Thursday stood directly opposite Mrs Saver-Lloyd, staring her down, Morse was still on the other side of the bed, and Strange hovered in the doorway with the fake gun in his hands, eyes flicking between everyone. Suddenly, Mrs Saver-Lloyd fell forward, Thursday only just catching her. When he sat her down on the bed, she was sobbing.

          "I only did it to keep Jake safe!" she cried.

          "Safe from what?" Thursday asked, with little sympathy.

          "You." was the vehement reply. "You in the police, who are hounding and chasing him when he hasn't done anything."

          "He beat up a Judge to the point where he almost died, I think that counts as something!" Morse said incredulously.

          "It wasn't him!" Mrs Saver-Lloyd looked at Thursday pleadingly, tears running down her cheeks. "He came to me, told me exactly what had happened. It was the same day he'd run away from a policeman at St Hugh's. He was distraught, being accused like that on…on top of everything that'd happened to him, with his parents. It wasn't him, officer," she wiped her eyes, looking straight at Thursday, "it wasn't him."

          "What did he tell you?" Thursday asked, somehow softly.

          "Exactly what happened, the whole truth. I believed him, I still believe him." She took a deep breath. "I saw Mr Hammersmith on Monday evening, and he said he'd found a Judge beaten up at the Crown Court. As we were walking, for we'd met in the street, he said he'd given a description of the attacker to the police, and I recognised that it was Jake from Jenson's retelling. He invited me in for a cup of tea, as the night was cold, and I saw my chance to protect Jake. After all he'd been through…"

          "What did you do?" Morse asked, feeling he already knew the answer.

          "I said I had to drop off my shopping at home, and got my pistol. I went back around, got him upstairs, and…shot him."

          "Why didn't you set the fire then, if you were going to dispose of the evidence that way?" Morse asked.

          "I hadn't thought of that yet, I was in shock, I couldn't believe that I'd actually done it." Saver-Lloyd said. "I dropped the gun and I ran, back home, and didn't go in there again until I followed your officer in."

          "And what about the fire, what's the 'whole truth' about that?" Morse asked.

Mrs Saver-Lloyd swallowed, feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes upon her. Morse moved around the bed to stand with the others.

          "I set it."

Letting out a deep breath, his eyes widening a little, Morse looked away. For a fleeting second, he felt the warmth of the fiery air, smelt the acrid burn of smoke, before he was back in the bedroom of a murderer, listening to her confess.

          "Why?" Thursday asked.

          "I saw a young man, this young man,-" she gestured to Morse "-go into the house, and so I went in with the spare key, to try and stop him. I couldn't let him discover the body. The idea of the fire came to me then, as I knew that Jenson kept some petrol in the house, for his tinkering. I couldn't let the police officer get out having seen Hammersmith dead, it would all come back to me."

          "So you tried to murder me!" Morse said, staring at her. "You knew I was in there, and purposely set a fire to try and destroy me along with the evidence."

There was a nod in reply. Seeing this, Thursday suddenly felt a surge of anger. He fixed the old woman with a glare.

          "You would have killed him in cold blood just because he stepped into your path?"

          "To protect Jake-" But she was cut off as Thursday suddenly lunged towards her.

Seeing what was about to happen, Morse jumped forward and stood between his superior and the suspect.

          "Sir, don't." he said quickly, holding his hands out.

          "She tried to kill you, Morse!" he growled. "Give me one good reason not to."

          "I know- where Jake is," Mrs Saver-Lloyd burst out, "he never left. He's just in the other room."

          "Constable Strange!" Thursday half-shouted, not looking away from the suspect. "Bring him in." he continued in a lower tone.

Strange turned quickly, and the three people in the bedroom remained frozen whilst they heard the door to the other bedroom open. There was a couple of words spoken, then a short scramble ending with a rather harsh "Don't try it, matey." before Strange appeared in the doorway, pushing Jake Crantree in front of him. The student walked slowly across to his aunt, looking deflated. "Sorry, aunt-"

          "It's alright, Jake." Mrs Saver-Lloyd said, reaching out for his hand.

Thursday and Morse exchanged a glance, then the Inspector cleared his throat.

          "If you wouldn't mind, we'd rather like to get this business over with." Thursday said. "First of all, why did you run from St Hugh's college that day DC Morse talked to you there, Mr Crantree?"

          "I couldn't be arrested, I was innocent!" Jake said defensively. "After my parents, I had to stay free."

          "So how exactly are you innocent?" Morse asked, disbelief in his tone, "Any why couldn't you just prove that to the police then instead of running away?"

Jake moved to sit beside his Aunt on the bed. "I came here the day I ran from the college, last Tuesday." he said. "Said police were after me, and auntie was annoyed at first, but then I explained what had happened. I was there, you see, outside my parent's house when they bought my mother out, a sheet over her. I overheard some policemen talking, saying 'what a shame it had been' and I felt the urge to talk to the Judge." He rubbed his fist. "I went to the court, found the judge, and followed him. Saw him with someone."

          "Who?"

          "I think it was another judge." Jake said. "There were definitely robes flying around."

          "And they wouldn't have been Judge Fawce's robes." Morse asked, thoughtful.

          "No, he was already on the floor." Jake's eyes shone with conviction. "He was definitely being beaten up by another Judge."

          "So, what, you joined in with the beating?" Thursday asked.

          "No, I thought that one person on him was enough, and I might get hurt myself if I jumped in then." Jake replied. "Well, that and I lost my nerve. I left the alleyway without laying a finger on him, I doubt if he even knew I was there."

Morse suddenly believed him, and knew that it had all been a case of wrong place, wrong time. Even though the intention had been there, Jake had never committed any crime. But, there were still the formalities, what with a murderer in the room.

          "Jennifer Saver-Lloyd, I'm arresting you for the murder of Mr Jenson Hammersmith, and the deliberate arson of twenty Hathaway Gardens," Morse said, as Strange moved forwards, handcuffs at the ready, "as well as the attempted murder a police officer. You don't have to say anything, but anything you do say can and will be written down and used as evidence."

As his aunt was silently taken from the room to the police car waiting outside, Jake turned to the two remaining officers.

          "What about me?"

          "You're free to go, Mr Crantree," Thursday said, "as you have proven that you are innocent after all."

          "Go where?" He said, his voice suddenly ugly with restrained tears. "You've locked up my family, chased me from my degree, taken everything from me."

          "I'll speak to the college, get them to take you back." Morse said. "Explain that a mistake was made."

He felt it was a small gesture, but the most they could do at that moment. Soon enough the house was empty again, Jake walking back to St Hugh's, Strange driving Mrs Saver-Lloyd back to the station, and Morse and Thursday following in the Jag.

          "Well done, Morse," Thursday eventually said, "on solving the case. Sorry for doubting you." His bagman was silent. "Morse?"

          "I feel like this links into one of the other cases we've had, but I'm not sure how." Morse said, eyes fixed ahead. "This isn't over."

          "Which case?" Thursday said, both intrigued and annoyed.

          "All quiet on the bank scandal front, isn't it?" Morse said. "Nothing's arrived at the Mail since we found Fawce beaten up."

          "You're saying...Fawce was sending the figures?"

          "It could be. It also could be something to do with the fact that he sentenced Mr Crantree."

          "How?"

Morse thought for a second. "I'm not sure, but there's definitely something there I can't quite see."

          "You'll need something more than that to link them, Morse." Thursday said. "And you'll need it fast. I don't care what the case is, I'm not working on Christmas day."

This promise ringing in his head, Morse completed the drive back to the station, and helped Strange process Mrs Saver-Lloyd. Her trial scheduled for after Christmas, she was taken down to the cells to wait it out. Once she was locked in, Strange turned to Morse.

          "How're you settling in then, matey?"

Caught off guard, Morse blinked a few times before replying. "Fine, thank you." He cleared his throat. "Haven't seen too much of it, with the case." He smiled weakly.

          "You having a flat-warming?" Strange asked, always keen for a party.

          "Oh- no." Morse said, with a depreciating smile. "Not worth it, with Christmas so close."

          "Christmas party, then?" Strange said, "Leaving it a bit late aren't you?"

          "No, I'm…going away." Morse bluffed, not keen to have anyone over. "See my step-sister."

          "Oh, well…hope she's all right." Strange said, trying not to sound too put out. "Send my regards."

          "Of course." Looking for a way out of a conversation which was fast becoming awkward, he spotted the clock. "Well, I've got to be going."

Strange followed Morse's gaze. "Half five already, me too!" he turned to leave. "I'll see you boxing day, matey. Taking a few days off between now and then."

          "See you then!"

As Strange disappeared round a corner, Morse let out a sigh of something like relief and collected his coat from by his desk. As he put his scarf of, Thursday called through from his office.

          "You, leaving early? What's gone wrong?"

          "Nothing, sir." Morse replied with a small smile. "Just got to sort out a couple of things with my new flat."

          "Oh. See you tomorrow, then."

          "You're not taking the holiday off?" Morse asked, surprised.

          "Christmas Day is all they can give me," Thursday replied with a grumble in his tone, "not enough people otherwise."

          "I'll see you tomorrow then." Morse said.

With that, he left the station, emerging into a winter wonderland. The snow had thickened, leaving the roads indistinguishable from the pavements, except where a short line of cars was occasionally marooned on the divide. Morse felt underdressed as he saw people go by in snow boots, thick winter coats and every shade of the rainbow in scarves. A few people sported umbrellas, but they were hardly worth it in the few flakes which seemed to perpetually fall from the white skies. As Morse made his way down the street, fading into the straggling crowd out doing last-minute Christmas shopping, his thin leather shoes slid slightly in the slush where many feet had tramped. He thought to where Joycie would be 'enjoying' time with Gwen, somewhere where there was no darkness for any light to shine through, and continued on his way, hoping he had enough money for the meter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nearly there :)


	11. Saturday 24th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QV1RGMLUKE&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&index=12&t=0s)

* * *

On the twenty-fourth Morse woke up early, dressed, got the Jag from the station, and picked up Inspector Thursday before he remembered it was Christmas Eve. He was reminded of the fact when Thursday gave a deep sigh as they pulled away from the curb, and started complaining.

          "You must be glad you don't go in for Christmas, Morse," he began, "more stress that it's worth. I'm pretty sure we've got Win's entire family coming over, one way or another."

          "Sir."

The truth was, Morse had never really experienced a stressful Christmas, but then he'd never properly experienced Christmas; and having more than the usual family in the house was an alien concept to him.

          "Anything in?" Thursday asked, mostly to break the silence.

Really, he hoped there wasn't. He didn't need another case before Christmas, he didn't even need the one they had now.

          "Nothing completely new," Morse said, "only that Judge Fawce has finally woken up, sometime last night."

          "That's where we're going now, then." Thursday said, realising that they would normally have arrived at the station by now.

          "Yes," Morse replied, "I thought it best that we should get his statement as soon as possible, apparently he's quite eager to."

As they pulled up at the hospital a few minutes later they were greeted at the door by a tired-looking doctor.

          "You’re here to see Judge Fawce?"  
          "Yes, to take his statement." Morse clarified, showing his warrant card whilst Thursday did the same.

          "Well, this way."

The two policemen were led away into the confusing maze of white, white, and white, before a swing door was opened and they entered a small ward. Only three of the eight visible beds were occupied, and it was instantly clear, even from a distance, which Judge Fawce lay in. He'd been properly done over, two black eyes and a bandage around his head the obvious signs above the clean, white hospital blanket. He saw them as soon as they came in the door, and sat up slightly.

          "Is he in a fit state to make a full statement now, doctor?" Thursday asked.

          "Yes, he's recovered very quickly mentally, and he wasn't too badly hurt physically." the doctor said, showing them a chart which neither could comprehend. "Concussion was the main thing that we were worried about, but five nights unconscious seems to have done the world of good, somehow."

They reached the Judge's bed, and Thursday hovered in the background, listening in, whilst Morse sat down in the bedside chair.

          "Judge, I'm Detective Constable Morse, City Police," he introduced himself, "I'd just like to ask you a couple of questions about when you were attacked."

          "That was…Monday evening?" the Judge asked, surprisingly alert.

          "Yes. What happened, as you remember it?"

          "I was just leaving the court when...when I heard a voice behind me, and-"

          "Who's voice?" Morse cut in, looking up from his notebook.

          "I don't remember...they said something, and I turned around to look at them. Well, the next thing I know I'm on the ground, and they're standing over me, robes and fists flying everywhere."

The two detectives exchanged a glance. "Another Judge?"

          "Yes, Judge...oh, I'll remember." Fawce said awkwardly.

          "Why would a Judge you knew attack you like this?" Morse prompted.

          "Because..." Silence fell for a second, the silence of thought. "It was Judge Rierdon." Fawce suddenly whispered. "He came to me outside the court and,- said he wanted to speak to me and,- because,- it was me!" He finished, suddenly desperate.

          "What was you?" Thursday asked, looming over his bagman's shoulder.

          "The letters to the Mail, about the bank, with the figures, they were all me." Fawce was getting more and more agitated by the second. "I sent them to- to target Judge Rierdon. The blackmailing bast-"

          "Why were you doing this?" Thursday cut across him, tone hard, "You could have targeted him any other way, why this?"

          "It was…passive, I thought. And, being on the legal team working with the Wessex bank, it was the easiest option open to me. I took a random stack of transfer receipts that I saw Rierdon's name on, and planned to send them to the Mail in instalments."

          "So he attacked you to stop you sending papers to the bank, as you had been doing daily for the last four days."

          "That's right."

          "You still have a lot of the papers, then?" Morse asked.

          "Yes, they're in my cubby at the Crown Court." he said.

          "So, that's all you remember?" Morse clarified, "Judge Rierdon came up behind you and said something, you turned around and he presumably knocked you down and started punching you. The attack lasted…"

          "I remember five or so minutes of it." Fawce said. "But I don't remember anything coming too near my face in that time, so I must have got the black eyes afterwards."

Morse and Thursday finished the interview with a couple of menial questions, then returned into the freezing winter wonderland outside the hospital. Yet more snow whilst they had been inside had led to some swift road closures, and they had to take a longer route back to the station. By the time they had skirted three car accidents, narrowly missed two unobservant pedestrians, and almost been in a collision themselves, the two officers were quite happy to pull up at Cowley station and had the job of getting the papers from Fawce's cubby over to Strange. Warming up and perking up with warm coffee, the two officers were feeling a little drowsy when Strange returned, snow-dusted and bearing a three-inch-thick pile of thin paper transfer receipts.

          "You'd better return those to the bank sharpish," Thursday said, "they'll need to file them I expect."

          "All respect, sir, but I'd wait a bit, matey," Strange butted in, "a real blizzard's just blown up, you can't hardly see three feet in front of you."

          "Thank you, Constable weatherman." Thursday said, a little annoyed. "Well, whenever you please then, Morse. As soon as those papers are in, I think we're on for an early evening."

If anything, that made Morse want to delay going back to the bank, at least for him. An early evening for Thursday meant quality time with Win, Sam, and Joan, but an early evening for him meant sitting in his tiny new flat, staring at the walls, or possibly a book. Over either option, he'd rather be working. A quick glance out the window told him that the snow was still falling heavily, so he couldn't leave even if he wanted to, and his thoughts turned to the stack of receipts in front of him. Flicking through them he hardly understood any of the bank jargon, but quickly learnt where the customer name, amount, and recipient were located. He probably shouldn't be looking through these, he thought, but just as he was about to close the stack again, one name caught his eye. It was _Rierdon, Frederick,_ and the recipient was _Fawce, Geoffrey_. The stated amount was-

          "One thousand pounds?!"

          "What's that?" Thursday looked out from his office, and saw Morse staring open-mouthed at the receipt.

          "Rierdon gave Fawce a thousand…pounds…in a bank transfer." he suddenly flicked over to the folder containing all the notes sent to the Mail.

          "And?" Thursday asked, "he's allowed to pay him, isn't he?"

          "That transfer was on Wednesday the fourteenth." Morse said, taking out a piece of paper from the folder, "the day before papers started arriving at the Oxford Mail and the same day that we found the body of Stephanie Jay-Price."

          "You can't be saying that these incidents are linked." Thursday said. "We've already got someone for the Jay-Price murder, and we know now that Judge Fawce was sending the papers from the bank to get back at Rierdon for something."

          "But what?" Morse said, "What had Rierdon done to Fawce that's so bad he wants to completely ruin him?"

Silence fell, and Thursday watched as Morse contemplated the problem. The lad was always so invested in the cases, it was hardly a wonder that he couldn't be torn away even with Christmas close at hand. Suddenly, his bagman sprang from the chair, hand seizing his car coat like a bolt of lightning.

          "I've got to find out," Morse said, stalking towards the main door, "I can't let this run until the new year."

          "Morse!" Thursday called after him, but knew he wasn't listening. "Mor- oh, just take care of yourself."

          The door swung shut before he could finish his sentence, leaving him facing the main hallway, empty except for a few snowflakes bourn on the breeze.

* * *

Morse headed straight for the hospital, hoping to find Fawce exactly where he had left him. However, when he reached the correct ward after several wrong turnings and three different sets of directions, he saw that the bed, and in fact the ward, was entirely devoid of Judge Fawce. Going up to the Duty Nurse, he asked where his suspect had been moved to.

          "Judge Fawce?" she asked,  flicking through the binder on her desk, "He was here this morning, with several visitors."

          "I know, I was one of them, but do you know where he could be now?"

          "No, sorry," the Nurse replied, "he was discharged."

          "Discharged!?" More exclaimed, and hearing someone moving behind him he glanced around.

The person behind him turned out to be Judge Fawce's doctor, who politely joined the conversation.

          "Fawce? Oh, he was discharged this morning." he repeated.

          "Why, doctor?" Morse asked, more than a little suspicious, "I thought that he had a serious concussion."

          "It was much improved with sleep, or so he insisted." the Doctor said. "I saw no reason to keep him in here over Christmas."

          "Doctor, where might he have gone from here?"

          "I'm afraid that's confidential-"

          "This man's life is in danger!" Morse hissed loudly, earning him several glares. "Please, Doctor, where did he go?"

The doctor swallowed. "The courts." he eventually replied. "He said that he had some business he needed to finish before Christmas." Morse was already turning back to the door, mind planning the fastest route from the hospital to the Crown Court. Fawce had gone back to the court not to work but to find Judge Rierdon, the same man who has beaten him up, with seemingly no thought for his own safety. The one good thing about the that Morse could find was that it would make dining Judge Rierdon that much easier. But one question still hung in Morse's mind: What _had_ Rierdon done to Fawce? Or rather, if Fawce was being paid-

          "What had Fawce done for Rierdon?" In the Jag, half way to the bank, Morse drove with the wheel in one hand and Thursday on the radio in the other. "The only thing he's done for anyone in the timescales concerned is sentence Henry Crantree to life for the Jay-Price murder."

          "And?" Thursday asked, voice crackly over the intermittent signal, "That was his job!"

          "Yes, his job was to pass sentence on anyone but Judge Fawce." Morse said. "It really was him who murdered Stephanie, not Crantree."

          "Why?" Thursday asked. "The only evidence pointing to Rierdon is the note, which we know to be a forgery because of his testimony and his alibi!"

          "He paid Fawce to pass sentence on someone else, just to get himself out of the noose. Then, Fawce became bitter over covering up a murder, and started to publish Rierdon's bank details as revenge. Rierdon beat up Fawce to silence him, and make sure he didn't tell anyone about the real deal: Rierdon having murdered his own tutee."

          "But why would he kill her?"

          "He was having an affair with her, sir, one that he couldn't stand to continue. Out of everyone we spoke to, he was on the most familiar terms with her, even over her parents."

          "How do you know?"

          "He called her Steph, when nobody else did. They were clearly more than tutor and tutee."

          "The handkerchief was his then JR, not JP, for Judge Rierdon."

          "I think so, sir." Morse pulled up outside the courts. "I'm here now, so I'll go in and-"

          "Wait for backup, Morse," Thursday started, "remember he's a mu-"

          "There isn't time, sir. A man's life is at stake."

Before Thursday could argue back, Morse clicked the radio off and hurried up the steps, racing towards Rierdon's court. It was listed at the desk as being court four again, so luckily Morse knew exactly where to go. Opening the door a little way with caution, he heard the voice before he saw their owners.

          "You think you've got the police on your side, but don't rely on them too much." Rierdon's voice, not very much above a menacing whisper.

          "I did nothing!" The shrill tone of Judge Fawce. "Nothing other than what was right for justice-"

          "-which is not your business!" Rierdon again.

          "It _is_ my business, I'm a judge of this court and I intend to do right by my position, even over sneaky, underhand,-"

          "And more of that, and you'll not live to see your next case. I paid you to do something for me, I do not expect you to undermine me with a financial vendetta!"

          "But you deserve it!" Fawce cried. "He was innocent, and I had to condemn him to-"

Fawce was cut off with the sound of a fist finding home. Morse, having heard enough, opened the door fully to reveal the scene. Judge Fawce was just about standing behind the bench overlooking the court, with his back to the door, cringing away from the raised fist of Judge Rierdon, who's face was inches away from his fellow justice's. As he was facing the door, Rierdon was the first to see Morse enter, and called out to him, eyes wide and a manic smile suddenly on his face.

          "The fuzz! Look, Fawce, it's your friends and protectors!"

          "Leave him alone!" Morse called, quickly making his way around the court to the bench.

          "Why." Rierdon said, his smile thinning. "He betrayed me, tried to- he tried-"

Rierdon's first swung again, and Fawce crumpled against the desk, coughing. Morse ran the last couple of steps and pushed Rierdon back, giving him a glare.

          "Leave him alone!" he said, in as thundery a voice as possible. "It's not him that's in the wrong here, it's you! You bribed him to sentence an innocent man instead of you, just so that you could continue to cover up your affair with your tutee."

          "Not for me." Judge Rierdon hissed. "I'm not so selfish. I would face the consequences of my actions like anyone. But I wouldn't let her face them."

          "'Her'?" Morse asked, "Who is she, Judge Rierdon?"

          "It doesn't matter," Rierdon was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, "she's safe now, she's safe now,-"

          "Who, Judge?" Morse almost shouted, eyes boring into the suspect.

Rierdon was silent. "My dear, I'm sorry,-" Morse took a step forward, and Rierdon looked up, eyes wide. "Get away from me, you interfering policeman!" Without warning, his fist launched from his side into Morse's stomach. The detective cried out in surprise, staggered a step, but regained his balance. "Who is she?"

          "Jane, I'm sorry!" Rierdon shouted to the roof, looking quite mad. "I did it for you, Jane." Judge Rierdon was suddenly quiet. "All for Jane."

          "His wife," Fawce croaked, still not recovered from Rierdon's attack, "She's his wife, Jane Rierdon."

Morse suddenly understood. Facts came together like a jigsaw falling into place. 'JR' wasn't Judge Rierdon, it was _Jane_ Rierdon.

          "Jane murdered Miss Jay-Price with her handkerchief." Morse said to Rierdon. "She found out about your affair with the student and killed her out of jealousy!"

          "It was a perfectly normal thing to do." Rierdon said, in a surprisingly steady voice. "I deserved to loose Steph, I never should have started it with her."

          "And you covered up for her by getting Fawce to sentence anyone, _anyone_ who was accused of the crime who wasn't your wife!"

Morse looked at Rierdon with disgust in his glare. "So, Judge, where is Mrs Rierdon now?"

          "Where no harm can come to her dear soul." Rierdon replied, looking at the ground with a fond smile.

Morse took a step back as he realised what had happened. "You killed her?"

          "She wouldn't have survived prison," Rierdon said, "it was…kinder, this way."

Suddenly, the doors at the back of the court burst open and Thursday stormed in, three armed constables fanning behind him. Strange was in the lead, shotgun trained on Rierdon.

          "Put your hands up, Rierdon!" Thursday called, "The game's over!"

Rierdon looked at Morse and Fawce with a gruel gaze. "I should have known you wouldn't be alone, officer. How foolish I was." Then he lashed out, fist connecting with Morse's chest again, causing him to double over in pain. It was lucky that he had, for at that moment a shot rang out, and Rierdon took a step backwards, before collapsing. Fawce was frozen in shock, his eyes flicking wildly between the twitching Rierdon and the doubled-up Morse. Thursday was already running to the platform, Strange following close behind, and DeBryn appeared in the doorway.

          "Morse, you alright?" were the Inspector's first words when he reached the bench.

But Morse's eyes were fixed on the blood pooling on the light wood from where Strange's bullet had grazed Rierdon's shoulder. Suddenly his head started to throb, the memories of Crantree lashing out, the fall, the bedside table, all coming back at once. His fatigued eyes sliding out of focus, he slid sideways onto the floor, his last feeling being one of approaching footsteps.

* * *

Thursday saw Morse see the blood, and partly predicted his reaction. Strange was holding down Rierdon, who was shouting a mix of obscenities and apologies to his wife whilst trying to get up, whilst one of the other previously gun-wielding constables led Judge Fawce away to one of the paramedics who had tuned up at Thursday's request. The Inspector ignored all this, however, and quickly made his way to Morse's side. It was clear that he had only passed out, but it was also clear that he'd been in the wars the last few days. Not only the small bruise on his cheek from Crantree's attack, the red-raw palm from his slip, and the general beaten demeanor, but what was presumably the residual concussion from the jump at the house fire; that, and whatever Rierdon had done to him. As Rierdon was being loaded protesting onto a stretcher, Morse groaned and Thursday turned to him.

          "Morse?"

          "…sir." came the slow reply, eyes opening in fractions.

          "What happened to you, then?" Thursday asked, as he helped his bagman sit up. "Are you alright?"

          "Rierdon isn't the murderer," Morse said, ignoring the question, "at least, he didn't murder Stephanie Jay-Price."

          "We knew that, lad," Thursday said, "Mr Crantree murdered her."

          "No," Morse contradicted in a tired tone, trying to get up, "it was Judge Rierdon's wife, Jane, who killed Jay-Price. But Judge Rierdon killed her as a…'kindness', or so he said, so he still needs to be arrested. Mr Crantree's innocent though, so he should be let out as soon as possible to return for Jake."

Thursday felt both impressed at Morse's detective skills, and worried for Morse's safety. He had gone into that court room knowing that it contained a murderer of some sort, with no back up, and clearly something had happened to him.

          "What did Rierdon do to you, Morse?"

          "He hit me." Morse said, trying to brush it off, and then saw DeBryn hovering in the background, listening to every word. "Not very hard, though, I'm fine."

However, as he tried to stand fully, his hand flew to his stomach, where it stayed as he coughed a couple of times.

          "Bruised rib, is it?" DeBryn said, moving in and sitting him back down on the desk rather than the floor.

          "No." Morse denied. "I'm fine, really,-"

          "No, you're not," DeBryn said, after watching the detective unbutton his shirt and taking a quick glance at where a long, thin bruise was forming on Morse's chest, "but it's nothing that bed rest won't cure. And, drink plenty of water." He suspected that Morse was systematically ignoring everything he said, so he turned to Thursday. "Better make sure he gets home alright, Thursday, we don't want him collapsed in an alleyway somewhere for the festivities."

          "I think he'll be coming home with me, Doctor." Thursday said, looking over DeBryn's shoulder.

The Doctor turned to follow his gaze, and his eyes fell on where Morse sat on the desk dozing, head tilted forwards and shirt still half undone.

          "I see what you mean, he needs looking after." DeBryn said, and packing up his bag after tending to Rierdon, started towards the door.

About to leave, he turned back to where the Inspector was helping a sleepy but still stubborn Morse button up his shirt and jacket again, and called out to them.

          "Happy Christmas, Inspector, you too Morse."

          "And you, Doctor." came the reply. "May it be a merry one."

Thursday pulled Morse's arm over his shoulder and half-walked, half-carried him to the Jag, still half asleep. The strain of the last few days must have finally caught up with him, as well as all his injuries, that and-

          "When did you last eat a decent meal, Morse?" Thursday asked, as he pushed his bagman gently onto the back seat.

          "Mmm." Morse replied, voice small. "Thursday."

          "You haven't eaten for almost two days?" Thursday exclaimed, "I'll have to get Win to heat something up for you when we get in."

But Morse was asleep again, and Thursday smiled as he climbed into the front seat. Starting the Jag's engine with a purr, he set off for home as the first crystalline flake fell from the heavens, blotting out the weak winter sun and bringing the day to an early close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you think it's done? well, think again...


	12. Sunday 25th

[Mood Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDs0Q0rUWxY&list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB&index=10&t=0s)

* * *

Sleeping for a long time was not something with which DC Morse was familiar. He normally dozed for a few hours a day in dribs and drabs, mostly in his bed, but occasionally at his desk in the CID office, neither of which was particularly comfortable. Working all night on a particularly puzzling case was common, all too common, and he frequently went for two days without any shut-eye. When he was dragged slowly back into consciousness by warm rays of light, the first thing that he noticed the was the comfortable place he had apparently fallen asleep in. The second was that he couldn't remember when he'd fallen asleep. Opening his eyes, he instantly recognised the room he was in; he'd been there too many times before. The Thursday's spare room. The space was lit only by a few sunbeams falling through a gap in the curtains, showing his coat and suit jacket hanging over the back of a chair, a clean shirt, jumper and trousers sitting on the seat, and his highly polished shoes sitting below. Disentangling himself from the sheets, he tried to ignore the background thrumming in his head.

          "Deck the halls with dum dum de dum…"

A voice, one that he suddenly recognised, was coming closer, accompanied by the creaking of stairs. Looking towards the doorway, he was just in time to see a figure in a Christmas jumper and a Santa hat cross the doorway, glancing in as they passed by.

          "…fa la la la la, la la la- ah! You're awake!" Inspector Thursday backtracked into the bedroom and sat down at Morse's bedside. "Feeling better?"

          "Better than what?" Morse asked, with a small smile.

          "Your little bust up at the Crown Court yesterday, with Judge Rierdon." Thursday reminded him. "He was arrested, by the way,- don't you remember?"

          "Honestly, sir, I was so tired that I hardly remember anything." Morse said, rubbing his eyes of sleep.  "The last thing I can think of is Rierdon punching me, and then a gunshot. What happened?"

          "Strange thought that Rierdon might go for you, and fired off a warning shot. Unfortunately, it was a little low, and grazed Rierdon's shoulder, which incapacitated him."

          "I thought Strange was off work until boxing day?" Morse asked, swinging himself off the bed and getting the clean clothes from the chair.

          "He came back in once he heard about the developments," Thursday said, as Morse walked to the bathroom, "just wanted to see the case to the end I think."

          "Anything else?" Morse called through the door.

          "You saw Rierdon's blood and passed out," Thursday said frankly, "I picked you up and bought you here, after DeBryn had taken a quick look at you. You've got a bruised rib from Rierdon, and you've got to drink plenty of water and rest."

          "Well, paperwork is rest," Morse said, "there must be plenty after all this."

          "Morse, it's Christmas day! This is no time for paperwork! Christmas lunch here is rest too, and you're invited." Thursday said, as the bathroom door opened. "You're dressed for it."

          "I can…see that." Morse emerged, staring down at the jumper the Thursdays were lending him.

It had first appeared to be plain blue, but unfolding had revealed a festive pattern of reindeer, bells, and snowflakes in brightly-coloured wools, aligned in neat knitted rows.

          "Now you're getting into the festive spirit, that's one of Win's best." Thursday said with a smile. "Why don't you come down and have a glass?"

          "I really should,- I can't-"

          "If you don't want to, just say." Thursday said kindly.

          "No, it's just that- I don't want to intrude." Morse said. "Christmas is a time for family."

          "You're practically part of ours, Morse, and you haven't got anywhere else to go."

Morse was silent, staring at the ground as faint Christmas music drifted up from the radio downstairs. There was an obvious change in atmosphere, and Thursday sensed it.

          "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he said softly, "I just meant that you've nowhere else in Oxford."

          "My flat-"

          "-is cold, damp, dark, and cramped, no place to spend Christmas." Thursday nodded downstairs. "Coming?"

After a minute of silence Morse nodded, and then moved to put his crumpled, slept-in clothing back in the bedroom.

          "Thanks for lending me this stuff, by the way," Morse said, "I'll get it back to you washed and ironed as soon as I can."

          "Oh, consider it a Christmas present." Thursday said, leading Morse downstairs. "The shirt and trousers don't fit Sam anymore, and the jumper was knitted specially by Win."

Morse was surprised; the fine needlework looked professional enough to be shop bought. As they reached the hallway, Morse saw how much the Thursday house had been decorated for the festive season. Tinsel glittered over each doorway, and a Christmas tree was just visible in the living room. However, this was no ordinary tree: the silver boughs were adorned with a variety of glamorous glass and stunning silk baubles, as well as snakes of electric lights and rainbow tinsel. In the doorway to the dining room hung a small sprig of mistletoe, and the shadow of a wreath showed through the frosted glass on the front door. Morse had never seen a Christmas this colourful, and as he was gently guided into the living room by the Inspector, he marvelled still more. Four stockings hung half-empty from the fireplace, and Sam and Joan sat in a small pile of wrapping paper looking at new comics and makeup. When Morse entered they moved slightly so he could sit down on the sofa.

          "So, you're awake then!" Sam said with a wide smile. "Merry Christmas!"

Morse have a small smile in return, then fixed his eyes on the tree. Even though several of them had been opened, there were still a couple of small packages under the silver spruce, wrapped in brightly-coloured and figure-adorned paper. As the radio switched to the next song, Win came in with a tray of drinks.

          "What's your tipple, Morse?" she said, proffering the deer-patterned plastic.

          "Oh, uh, thanks." he said, taking a glass at random.

Luckily for him it was whiskey, and he sipped it slightly nervously, not knowing exactly what happened next. With his parents they hadn't done very much over the festive period, and with Joycie and Gwen even less. Looking to Thursday for advice or a pointer, he saw that he was talking to Joan and Sam; of course, this was a time for family. Suddenly, he felt incredibly out of place. He shouldn't be here, this was for Thursday to spend time with his wife and children, not to look after his incompetent bagman yet again. The lights and the atmosphere were great, but he didn't really deserve it. Really, he should be-

          "No concert this year, Morse?" Win was sitting on the other sofa, talking to him. "I was looking forward to seeing you in it, so was Fred."

Surprised, he blushed a little. "It is on, but I couldn't attend any of the rehearsals because of the case so...I'm not in it, this year."

          "That's a shame." she said, sounding genuinely saddened. "Well, at least you can join in with our Christmas carols."

          "That's very kind of you, Mrs Thursday." he said, and immediately wondered how many of the popular ones he knew.

          "Oh, and lunch will be ready soon, all," Win called, and Morse saw his chance.

          "Can I help, Mrs Thursday?"

Win looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled. "If you want to, dear."

          "But before that, why not have a look under the tree?" Fred said, nodding to its corner.

          "I've seen, the presents look very-"

          "Have a proper look, Morse."

Sam and Joan parted the sea of paper as a slightly confused Morse made his way to the Christmas tree. Kneeling down, he saw that there was a couple of packages for 'Eddie and Flo', a small box for 'Peter J', and a large, flat package for-

          "'Morse'? Me, sir?"

          "How many other Morse's do you think we know? Open it."

          "But I couldn't,- I haven't-" As he stuttered, he felt three pairs of eyes hot on him.

          "You didn't have to." Thursday said softly with a smile. "Open it, though, I want to know what you think."

Cautiously, Morse unfolded the green and red wrapping until the contents slid out. Picking up the disk, he saw it was a recording of 'White Christmas' by Frank Sinatra. A glance out the window told him it was well suited to the weather, as the garden was completely blanketed in fluffy ice.

          "Sir, I...thank you."

          "You like it then." Thursday reclined in his seat. "I heard it on the radio the other day it I wasn't sure if it'd be your cup of tea. I know you wouldn't normally go in for it, but it's quite orchestral."

Morse smiled shyly and looked at the record in his lap. Suddenly, he heard the bustle of Win starting to move the food into the dining room, and he sprang up, putting the record safely on a side table.

          "I should help…" he said, and made a quick escape to the kitchen to hide the tear in his eye.

Thursday turned to Sam and Joan. "Did he like it?"

          "Of course he did, dad," Joan replied, "he's just a bit…surprised, I think. Maybe a little overwhelmed."

Thursday nodded knowingly, then started to gather up the discarded wrapping paper. Soon enough Morse returned to say that lunch was ready, and as the five of them sat down to dinner, the Thursday house positively glowed. As he relaxed into the day, Morse found himself smiling more and more, and not because of the ready supply of alcohol, but because of the friendly and relaxed company he was keeping. In the houses next door presents were being opened too, and greetings exchanged; all across the ancient city, in fact. Beneath snow-laden rooves, the warm lights of the houses shone brightly with festive joy, and the best presents were given and received. In the east, a father knocked on his son's door, to be met by a hug and a 'Happy Christmas!', the best presents he could have asked for. In the frosty streets few cars crawled, but those that did were filled with weary travellers and gifts to be given. Later, much later, Morse would step out onto the icy pavements and wave his goodbyes, record under his arm. Walking home through the dark yet cosy streets, he thought how kind Inspector Thursday was, even when he had his own family to consider; his real family. So many good things had happened recently: The case solved, another murderer behind bars, the city safe for now, Thursday free to enjoy Christmas with his family. And really, what more could he ask for.

[\-- --- .-. ... .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BY1xwC0Yn08)

[Here's](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2qifpWlEmD6OJUQFsHIaKDVRgDZ1m9zB) a link to a playlist of all the music used in this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas/seasons greetings ya'll, have a great one <3 also thanks to all seven subscribers to this work :) surprised the hell outta me that people liked it that much, but still. credits: @queenspun (tumblr) as classical consultant, @macaronimood (tumblr) as beta reader and general scream buddy, as well as that great drawing for y'all at the end, and friend diane as legal consultant because I have no clue what a law is. once again thanks for reading, and happy holidays!

**Author's Note:**

> it's the big project, yaaay! perfectly timed as my christmas present to y'all :)
> 
> Hey there! This is a big leap for me into the world of actually long works, which might (hopefully!) make sense in the end. If anyone spots anything wrong, please do contact me on my Writeblr (@carryon-writing), and seasons greetings to everyone reading this :D Feel free to critique my work, I need all the advice I can get :) ~Cosmo
> 
> [Crossposted on Tumblr: @carryon-writing]


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